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' 




RICHARD AND MARGARET. 


pi. 45, 46 



THE DAISY CHAIN; 

OE, 

SPIRA.TIOI^S. 

\ 

^ JAmiltr CltrfmMf. 


BY TUB 

AUTHOR OF “THE IIEIE OF REDCLTFFE,” “ HEA.RTSEASR 

ETC. 


j/^ crtA-^vv»u .. 


i * 


‘ To the highest room, 

Earth’s lowliest flowers our Lord receives : 
Close to His heart a place ne gives, 

Where they shall ever bloom.’ 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 


* > 

3 3 

) 




NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

5 4 9 & 551 BROADWAY. 

1875. 



? 7 >* 

-Is 

3 

s 


Bequest 

Albert Adsit Clemons 
Aug. 24, 1938 
(Not available for exchange) 


f 


PREFACE. 


No one can be more sensible than is the Author that 
the present is an overgrown book of a nondescript class, 
neither the “ tale” for the young, nor the novel for their 
elders, but a mixture of both. 

. 4 : -V , 

Begun as a series of conversational sketches, the story 
outran both the original intention and the limits of the 
periodical in which it was commenced ; and, such as it has 
| become, it is here presented to those who have aheady made 
acquaintance with the May family, and may be willing to 
see more of them. It would beg to be considered merely as 
what it calls itself, a Family Chronicle — a domestic record 
of home events, large and small, during those years of early 
life when the character is chiefly formed, and as an endeav- 
our to trace the effects of those aspirations which are a part 
of every youthful nature. That the young should take one 
hint, to think whether their hopes and upward-breathings 
are truly upwards, and founded in lowliness, may be called 
the moral of the tale. 


iv 


PREFACE. 


For those who may deem the story too long and the 
characters too numerous, the Author can only beg their par- 
don for any tedium that they may have undergone before 
giving it up 


Feb. 22nd, 1856 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


CHAPTER I. 

‘Si douce est la Marguerite.’— Chaucer. 

‘Miss Winter, are you busy? Do you want this afternoon? 
Can you take a good long walk ? * 

‘ Ethel, my dear, how often have I told you of your impetuos- 
ity — you have forgotten,’ 

‘Very well’ — with an impatient twist — ‘I beg your pardon. 
Good morning, Miss Winter,’ said a thin, lank, angular, sallow girl, 
just fifteen, trembling from head to foot with restrained eagerness, 
as she tried to curb her tone into the requisite civility. 

‘ Good morning, Ethel, good morning, Flora,’ said the prim, 
middle-aged, daily governess, taking off her bonnet, and arranging 
the stiff little rolls of curl at the long, narrow looking-glass, the 
border of which distorted the countenance. ' 

‘ Good morning,’ propeny responded Flora, a pretty, fair girl, 
nearly two years older than her sister. 

‘ Will you — ’ began to burst from Etheldred’s lips again, but 
was stifled by Miss Winter’s inquiry, ‘ Is your mamma pretty well 
to-day ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! very well,’ said both at once ; ‘ she is coming to the read- 
ing.’ And Flora added, ‘ Papa is going to drive her out to-day.’ 

‘ I am very glad. And the baby ? ’ 

‘ I do believe she does it on purpose ! ’ whispered Ethel to her- 
self, wriggling fearfully on the wide window-seat on which she had 
precipitated herself, and kicking at the bar of the table, by which 
manifestation she of course succeeded in deferring her hopes, by a 
reproof which caused her to draw herself into a rigid, melan- 
choly attitude, a sort of penance of decorum, but a rapid motion 
of the eyelids, a tendency to crack the joints of the fingers, and an 
unquietness at the ends of her shoes, betraying the restlessness of 
the digits therein contained. 

It was such a room as is often to be found in old country town 
houses, the two large windows looking out on a broad old-fashioned 
.street, through heavy framework, and panes of glass scratched with 


6 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


various names and initials. The walls were painted blue, tli6 
skirting almost a third of the height, and so wide at. the top as 
to form a narrow shelf. The fire-place, constructed in the days 
when fires were made to give as little heat as possible, was orna- 
mented with blue and white Dutch tiles bearing marvellous repre- 
sentations of Scripture history, and was protected by a very tall 
green guard; the chairs were much of the same -date, solid and 
heavy, the seats in faded carpet-work, but there was a sprinkling 
of lesser ones and of stools; a piano; a globe; a large table in 
the middle of the room, with three desks on it ; a small one, and 
a light cane chair by each window ; and loaded book-cases. Flora 
began, 1 If you don’t want this afternoon to yourself — ’ 

° Ethel was on her feet, and open-mouthed. 1 0, Miss Winter! 
if you would be so kind as to walk to Cocksmoor with us.’ v 

‘ To Cocksmoor, my dear ! ’ exclaimed the governess in dismay. 

1 Yes, yes, but hear,’ cried Ethel. ‘ It is not for nothing. 
Yesterday — ’ 

‘ No, the day before,’ interposed Flora. 

1 There was a poor man brought into the hospital. He had 
been terribly hurt in the quarry, and papa says he’ll die. He was 
in great distress, for his wife has just got twins, and there were 
lots of children before. They want everything — food and clothes 
— and we want to walk and take it.’ 

‘We had a collection of clothes ready, luckily,’ said Flora; 

‘ and we have a blanket, and some tea and some arrowroot, and a 
bit of bacon, and mamma says she does not think it too far for us 
to walk, if you will be so kind as to go with us.’ 

Miss Winter looked perplexed. ‘ How could you carry the blan 
ket, my dear ? ’ 

‘ O, we have settled that,’ said Ethel, ‘ we mean to make the 
donkey a sumpter-mule, so, if you are tired, you may ride home 
on her.’ 

‘ But, my dear, has your mamma considered ? They are such 
a set of wild people at Cocksmoor ; I don’t think we could walk 
there alone.’ 

‘ It is Saturday,’ said Ethel, 1 we can get the boys.’ 

c If you would reflect a little ! They would be no protection. 
Harry would be getting into scrapes, and you and Mary running 
wild.’ 

‘ I wish Richard was at home ! ’ said Flora. 

‘ I know ! ’ cried Ethel. 1 Mr. Ernescliffe will come. I am 
Bure he can walk so far now. I’ll ask him.’ 

Ethel had clapped after her the heavy door with its shining 
brass lock, before Miss Winter well knew what she was about, and 
the governess seemed annoyed. 1 Ethel does not consider,’ said 
she. ‘ I don’t think your mamma will be pleased.’ 

Why not ? ’ said Flora. 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


7 


1 My dear — a gentleman walking with you, especially if Marga- 
ret is going.’ 

‘ I don’t think he is strong enough,’ said Flora ; 1 hut I can’t 
think why there should he any harm. Papa took us all out walk- 
ing with him yesterday — little Aubrey and all, and Mr. Ernescliffe 
went.’ 

‘But my dear — ’ 

She was interrupted by the entrance of a fine tall blooming 
girl of eighteen, holding in her hand a pretty little maid of five. 
‘ Good morning, Miss Winter. I suppose Flora has told you the 
request we have to make to you ? ’ 

1 Yes, my dear Margaret, but did your mamma consider what a 
lawless place Cocksmoor is ? ’ 

‘ That was the doubt,’ said Margaret, * but papa said he would 
answer for it nothing would happen to us, and mamma said if you 
would be so kind.’ 

‘ It is unlucky,’ began the governess, but stopped at the incur- 
sion of some new comers, nearly tumbling over each other, Ethel 
at the head of them. ‘ Oh ! Harry ! ’ as the gathers of her frock 
gave way in the rude grasp of a twelve-years-old boy. 1 Miss 
Winter, ’tis all right — Mr. Ernescliffe says he is quite up to the 
walk, and will like it very much, and he will undertake to defend 
you from the quarrymen.’ 

1 Is Miss Winter afraid of the quarrymen ? ’ hallooed Harry. 
1 Shall I take a club ? ’ 

1 I’ll take my gun and shoot them,’ valiantly exclaimed Tom ; 
and while threats were passing among the boys, Margaret asked, 
in a low voice, 1 Hid you ask him to come with us ? ’ 

1 Yes, he said he should like it of all things. Papa was them 
and said it was not too far for him — besides, there’s the donkey. 
Papa says it, so we must go, Miss Winter.’ 

Miss Winter glanced unutterable things at Margaret, and Ethel 
began to perceive she had done something wrong. Flora was going 
to speak, when Margaret, trying to appear unconscious of a certain 
deepening colour in her own cheeks, pressed a hand on her shoul- 
der, and whispering, ‘ I’ll see about it. Don’t say any more, please,’ 
glided out of the room. 

1 What’s in the wind ? ’ said Harry. 1 Are many of your reefs 
out there, Ethel ? ’ 

‘ Harry can talk nothing but sailor’s language,’ said Flora, ‘ and 
I am sure he did not learn that of Mr. Ernescliffe. You never 
hear slang from him.’ 

1 But aren’t we going to Cocksmoor ? ’ asked Mary, a blunt 
downright girl of ten. 

‘ We shall know soon,’ said EtlieJ. ‘ I suppose I had better wait 
till after the reading to mend that horrid frock ? ’ 

‘I think so. since we are so nearly collected,’ said Miss Win 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


ter ; and Ethel, seating herself on the corner of the window-seat, 
with one leg doubled under her, took up a Shakespeare, holding it 
close to her eyes, and her brother Norman, who, in age, came be- 
tween her and Flora, kneeling on one knee on the window-seat, 
and supporting himself with one arm against the shutter, leant 
over her, reading it too, disregarding a tumultuous skirmish going 
on in that division of the family collectively termed ‘ the boys,’ 
namely, Harry, Mary, and Tom, until Tom was suddenly pushed 
down and tumbled over into Ethel’s lap thereby upsetting her and 
Norman together, and there was a general downfall, and a loud 
scream, ‘ The sphynx ! ’ 

‘You’ve crushed it,’ cried Harry, dealing out thumps indis- 
criminately. 

‘No, here ’tis,’ said Mary, rushing amcng them, and bringing 
out a green sphynx caterpillar, on her finger — ‘ tis not hurt.’ 

‘ Pax ! Pax ! ’ cried Norman, over all, with the voice of an 
authority, as he leapt up lightly and set Tom on his legs again. 

‘ Harry ! you had better do that again,’ he added, warningly. ‘ Be 
off, out of this window, and let Ethel and me read in peace.’ 

‘ Here’s the place,’ said Ethel — ‘ Crispin, Crispian’s day. How 
I do like Henry V.’ 

‘ It is no use to try to keep those boys in order ! ’ sighed Miss 
Winter. 

‘ Saturnalia, as papa calls Saturday,’ replied Flora. 

‘ Is not your eldest brother coming home to-day ? ’ said Miss 
Winter, in a low voice to Flora, who shook her head, and said, con- 
fidentially, ‘ He is not coming till he has passed that examination. 
He thinks it better not.’ 

Here entered, with a baby in her arms, a lady with a beautiful 
countenance of calm sweetness, looking almost too young to be the 
mother of the tall Margaret, who followed her. There was a gen- 
eral hush as she greeted Miss Winter, the girls crowding round to 
look at their little sister, not quite six weeks old. 

‘ Now, Margaret, will you take her up to the nursery ? ’ said the 
mother, while the impatient speech was repeated, ‘ Mamma, can wo 
go to Coeksmoor?’ 

‘You don’t think it will be too far for you?’ said the mother 
to Miss Winter, as Margaret departed. 

‘ 0 no, not at all, thank you, that was not — But Margaret has 
explained.’ 

‘ Yes, poor Margaret,’ said Mrs. May, smiling. ‘ She has set- 
tled it by choosing to stay at home with me. It is no matter for 
the others, and he is going on Monday, so that it will not happen 
again.’ 

‘ Margaret has behaved very well,’ said Miss Winter. 

‘ She has indeed,’ said her mother, smiling. ‘ Well, Harry how 
is the caterpillar ? ’ 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


9 


‘ They’ve just capsized it, mamma,’ answered Harry , 1 and Mary 
is making all taut.’ 

Mrs. May laughed, and proceeded to advise Ethel and Norman 
to put away Henry V., and find the places in their Bibles, ‘ or you 
will have the things mixed together in your heads,’ said she. 

In the mean time Margaret, with the little babe, to-morrow to 
be her godchild, lying gently in her arms, came out into the matted 
hall, and began to mount the broad shallow-stepped stair-case, pro- 
tected by low stout balusters, with a very thick flat and solid ma- 
hogany hand-rail polished by the boys’ constant riding up and down 
upon it. She was only on the first step, when the dining-room door 
opened, and there came out a young man, slight, and delicate-look- 
ing, with bright blue eyes, and thickly-curling light hair. 4 Acting 
nurse ? ’ he said smiling. 1 What an odd little face it is ! I didn’t 
think little white babies were so pretty! Well, I shall always 
consider myself as the real godfather — the other is all a sham.’ 

1 1 think so,’ said Margaret, 1 but I must not stand with her in 
a draught,’ and on she went, while he called after her. 1 So we are 
to have an expedition to-day.’ 

She did not gainsay it, but there was a little sigh of disap- 
pointment, and when she was out of hearing, she whispered, ‘ Oh ! 
lucky baby, to have so many years to come before you are plagued 
with troublesome propriety ! ’ 

Then depositing her little charge with the nurse, and trying to 
cheer up a solemn-looking boy of three, who evidently considered 
his deposition from babyhood as a great injury, she tripped lightly 
down again, to take part in the Saturday’s reading and catechising. 

It was pleasant to see that large family in the hush and rever- 
ence of such teaching, the mother’s gentle power preventing the 
outbreaks of restlessness to which even at such times the wild young 
spirits were liable. Margaret and Miss Winter especially rejoiced 
in it on this occasion, the first since the birth of the baby, that 
she had been able to preside. Under her, though seemingly with- 
out her taking any trouble, there was none of the smothered laugh- 
ing at the little ones’ mistakes, the fidgetting of the boys, or 
Harry’s audacious impertinence to Miss Winter; and no less glad 
was Harry to have his mother there, and be guarded from himself. 

The Catechism was repeated, and a comment on the Sunday 
Services read aloud. The Grospel was that on the taking the low- 
est place, and when they had finished,, Ethel said, 1 1 like the verse 
which explains that : 

'* They who now sit lowest here, 

When their Master shall appear, 

He shall bid them higher rise, 

And be highest in the skies.” ’ 

1 1 did not think of that being the meaning of “ when He that 
bade thee cometh,” ’ said Norman, thoughtfully. 


30 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 It seemed to be only our worldly advantage that was meant 
before,’ said Ethel. 

‘ Well, it means that too,’ said Flora. 

‘I suppose it does,’ said Mrs. May; ‘but the higher sense is 
the one chiefly to be dwelt on. It is a lesson how those least 
known and regarded here, and humblest in their own eyes, shall 
be the highest hereafter.’ 

And Margaret looked earnestly at her mother, but did not speak. 

‘ May we go, mamma ? ’ said Mary. 

( Yes, you three — all of you, indeed, unless you wish to say any 
more.’ 

The ‘ boys ’ availed themselves of the permission. Norman tarried 
to put his books into a neat leather case, and Ethel stood thinking. 

‘ It means altogether — it is a lesson against ambition,’ said she. 

‘ True,’ said her mother, ‘ the love of eminence for its own sake.’ 

‘ And in so many different ways ! ’ said Margaret. 

‘ Aye, worldly greatness, riches, rank, beauty,’ said Flora. 

‘ All sorts of false flash and nonsense, and liking to be higher 
than one ought to be,’ said Norman. ‘I am sure there is nothing 
lower, or more mean and shabby, than getting places and praise a 
fellow does not deserve.’ 

‘ Oh ! yes ! ’ cried Ethel, ‘ but no one fit to speak to would do that ! ’ 

‘ Plenty of people do, I can tell you,’ said Norman. 

‘ Then I hope I shall never know who they are ! ’ exclaimed 
Ethel. ‘ But I’ll tell you what I was thinking of, mamma. Caring 
to be clever, and get on, only for the sake of beating people.’ 

‘I think that might be better expressed.’ 

‘ I know,’ said Ethel, bending her brow, with the fulness of her 
thought — ‘ I mean caring to do a thing only because nobody else 
can do it — wanting to be first more than wanting to do one’s best.’ 

‘ You are quite right, my dear Ethel,’ said her mother; ‘and I 
am glad you have found in the Gospel a practical lesson, that should 
be useful to you both. I had rather you did so than that you read 
it in Greek, though that is very nice too,’ she added, smiling, as 
she put her hand on a little Greek Testament, in which Ethel had 
been reading, within her English Bible. ‘ Now, go and mend that 
deplorable frock, and if you don’t dream over it, you won’t waste 
too much of your holiday.’ 

‘ I’ll get it done in no time ! ’ cried Ethel rushing head-long 
up-stairs, twice tripping in it, before she reached the attic, where 
she slept, as well as Flora and Mary — a large room in the roof, 
the windows gay with bird-cages and flowers, a canary singing loud 
enough to deafen any one but girls to whom headaches were un- 
known, plenty of books and treasures, and a very fine view, from 
the dormer-window, of the town sloping downwards, and the river 
winding away, with some heathy hills in the distance. Poking and 
peering about with her short-sighted eyes, Ethel lighted on a work 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


li 


basket in rare disorder, pulled off her frock, threw on a shawl, and 
sat down cross-legged on her bed, stitching vigorously, while mean- 
time she spouted with great emphasis an ode of Horace, which 
Norman having learnt, by heart, she had followed his example; 
it being her great desire to be even with him in all his studies, and 
though eleven months younger, she had never yet fallen behind 
him. On Saturday, he showed her what were his tasks for the 
week, and as soon as her rent was repaired, she swung herself down- 
stairs in search of him for this purpose. She found him in the 
drawing-room, a pretty pleasant room — its only fault that it was 
rather too low. It had windows opening down to the lawn, and 
was full of pretty things, works and knicknacks. Ethel found the 
state of affairs unfavourable to her. Norman was intent on a book 
on the sofa, and at the table sat Mr. Ernescliffe, hard at work with 
calculations and mathematical instruments. Ethel would not, for 
the world, that any one should guess at her classical studies — she 
scarcely liked to believe that even her father knew of them, and 
to mention them before Mr. Ernescliffe would have been dreadful. 
So she only shoved Norman, and asked him to come. 

‘ Presently,’ he said. 

‘ What have you there ? ’ said she, poking her head into the book. 
‘ 0 ! no wonder you can’t leave off. I’ve been wanting you to 
read it all the week.’ 

She read over him for a few minutes, then recoiled : ‘ I forgot, 
mamma told me not to read, those stories in the morning. Only 
five minutes, Norman.’ 

1 Wait a bit, I’ll come.’ 

She fidgetted, till Mr. Ernescliffe asked Norman if there was 
a table of logarithms in the house. 

1 0 yes,’ she answered ; ‘ don’t you know, Norman ? In a 
brown book on the upper shelf in the dining-room. Don’t you 
remember papa’s telling us the meaning of them, when we had the 
grand book-dusting.’ 

He was conscipus of nothing but his book; however, she found 
the logarithms, and brought them to Mr. Ernescliffe, staying to 
look at his drawing, and asking what he was making out. He re- 
plied, smiling at the impossibility of her understanding, but she 
wrinkled her brown forehead, hooked her long nose, and spent the 
next hour in amateur navigation. 

Market Stoneborough was a fine old town. The Minster, grand 
with the architecture of the time of Henry III., stood beside a broad 
river, and round it were the buildings of a Convent, made by a cer- 
tain good Bishop Whichcote, the nucleus of a grammar school, which 
had survived the Deformation, and trained up many good scholars ; 
among them, one of England’s princely merchants, Nicholas Ran- 
dall, whose effigy knelt in a niche in the Chancel wall, scarlet- 
cloaked, white-ruffed, and black-doubletted, a desk bearing an open 


12 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Bible before him, and a twisted pillar of Derbyshire spar on each 
side. He was the founder of thirteen almshouses, and had endowed 
two scholarships at Oxford, the object of ambition of the Stone 
borough boys, every eighteen months. 

There were about sixty or seventy boarders, and the town boys 
slept at home, and spent their weekly holiday there on Saturday 
— the happiest day in the week to the May family, when alone, 
they had the company at dinner of Norman and Harry, otherwise 
known by their school names of J une and J uly, given them because 
their elder brother had begun the series of months as May. 

Some two hundred years back, a Doctor Thomas May had been 
head master, but ever since that time there had always been an 
M. D., not a D. D., in the family, owning a comfortable demesne 
of spacious garden, and field enough for two cows, still green and 
intact, among modern buildings and improvements. 

The present Dr. May stood very high in his profession, and 
might soon have made a large fortune in London, had he not held 
fast to his home attachments. He was extremely skilful and clev- 
er, with a boyish character that seemed as if it could never grow 
older ; ardent, sensitive, and heedless, with a quickness of sympa- 
thy and tenderness of heart that was increased rather than blunt- 
ed, by exercise in scenes of suffering. 

At the end of the previous summer holidays, Dr. May had been 
called one morning to attend a gentleman who had been taken very 
ill, at the Swan Inn. 

He was received by a little boy of ten years old, in much grief, 
explaining that his brother had come two days ago from London, 
to bring him to school here ; he had seemed unwell ever since they 
met, and last night had become much worse. And extremely ill 
the Doctor found him ; a youth of two or three-and-twenty, suffer- 
ing under a severe attack of fever, oppressed, and scarcely con- 
scious, so as quite to justify his little brother’s apprehensions. 
He advised the boy to write to his family, but was answered by a 
look that went to his heart — 1 Alan ’ was all he had in the world — 
father and mother were dead, and their relations lived in Scotland, 
and were hardly known to them. 

‘ Where have you been living, then ? ’ 

1 Alan sent me to school at Miss Lawler’s, when my mother 
died, and there I have been ever since, while he has been these 
three years and a half on the African station.’ 

‘ What, is he in the navy ? ’ 

1 Yes,’ said the boy, proudly, ‘ Lieutenant Ernescliffe. He got 
his promotion last week. My father was in the battle of Trafalgar ; 
and Alan has been three years in the West Indies, and then he was 
in the Mediterranean, and now on the coast of Africa, in the Ata^ 
\antis. You must have heard about him, for it was in the news 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


13 


paper, how, when he was mate, he had the command of the Santa 
[sabel, the slaver they captured.’ 

The boy would have gone on for ever, if Dr. May had not re- 
called him to his brother’s present condition, and proceeded to take 
every measure for the welfare and comfort of the forlorn pair. 

He learnt from other sources that the Ernescliffes were well 
connected. The father had been a distinguished officer, but had 
been ill able to provide for his sons ; indeed, he .died, without ever 
having seen little Hector, who was born during his absence on a 
voyage — his last, and Alan’s first. Alan, the elder by thirteen 
years, had been like a father to the little boy, showing judgment 
and self-denial that marked him of a high cast of character. He 
had distinguished himself in encounters with slave ships, and in 
command of a prize that he had had to conduct to Sierra Leone, he 
had shown great coolness and seamanship, in several perilous con- 
junctures, such as a sudden storm, and an encounter with another 
slaver, when his Portuguese prisoners became mutinous, and nothing 
but his steadiness and intrepidity had saved the lives of himself 
and his few English companions. He was, in fact, as Dr. May re- 
ported, pretty much of a hero. He had not, at the time, felt the 
effects of the climate, but, owing to sickness and death among the 
other officers, he had suffered much fatigue, and pressure of mind 
and body. Immediately on his return, had followed his examina- 
tion, and though he had passed with great credit, and it had been 
at once followed by well-earned promotion, his nervous excitable 
frame had been overtasked, and the consequence was a long and 
severe illness. 

The Swan inn was not forty yards from Dr. May’s back gate, 
and, at every spare moment, he was doing the part of nurse as well 
as doctor, professionally obliged to Alan Ernescliffe for bringing 
him a curious exotic specimen of fever, and requiting him by the 
utmost care and attention, while, for their own sakes, he delighted 
in the’ two boys with all the enthusiasm of his warm heart. Before 
the first week was at an end, they had learned to look on the Doctor 
as one of the kindest friends it had been their lot to meet with, and 
Alan knew that if he died, he should leave his little brother in the 
hands of one who would comfort him as a father. 

No sooner was young Ernescliffe able to sit up, than Dr. May 
insisted on conveying him to his own house, as his recovery was 
likely to be tedious, in solitude at the Swan. It was not till he 
had been drawn in a chair along the sloping garden, and placed on 
the sofa to rest, that he discovered that the time the good Doctor 
had chosen for bringing a helpless convalescent to his house, was 
two days after an eleventh child had been added to his family. 

Mrs. May was too sorry for the solitary youth, and too sympa- 
thizing with her husband, to make any objection, though she waa 
not fond of strangers, and had some anxieties. She had the ut 


14 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


most dependence on Margaret’s discretion, but there was a ehanc« 
of awkward situations, which papa was not likely to see or guard 
against. However, all seemed to do very well, and no one ever 
came into her room without some degree of rapture about Mr 
Ernescliffe. The Doctor reiterated praises of his excellence, his 
principle, his ability and talent, his amusing talk ; the girls were 
always bringing reports of his perfections ; Norman retracted his 
grumblings at haying his evenings spoilt ; and 1 the boys ’ were 
bursting with the secret that he was teaching them to rig a little 
ship that was to astonish mamma on her first coming down stairs 
and to be named after the baby ; while Blanche did all the coquetry 
with him, from which Margaret abstained. The universal desire 
was for mamma to see him, and when the time came, she owned 
that papa’s swan had not turned out a goose. 

There were now no grounds for prolonging his stay ; but it was 
very hard to go, and he was glad to avail himself of the excuse of 
remaining for the Christening, when he was to represent the absent 
godfather. After that, he must go ; he had written to his Scottish 
cousins to ofi'er a visit, and he had a promise that he should soon 
be afloat again. No place would ever seem to him so like home as 
Market Stoneborough. He was quite like one of themselves, and 
took a full share in the discussion on the baby’s name, which, as all 
the old family appellations had been used up, was an open question 
The Doctor protested against Alice and Edith, which he said were 
the universal names in the present day. The boys hissed every 
attempt of their sisters at a romantic name, and then Harry wanted 
it to be Atalantis! At last Dr. May announced that he should 
have her named Dowsabel if they did not agree, and Mrs. May 
advised all the parties concerned, to write their choice on a slip of 
paper, and little Aubrey should draw two out of her bag, trusting 
that Atalantis Dowsabel would not come out, as Harry confidently 
predicted. 

However, it was even worse, Aubrey’s two lots were Gertrude 
and Margaret. Ethel and Mary made a vehement uproar to dis- 
cover who could have written Margaret, and at last traced it home 
to Mr. Ernescliffe, who replied that Flora, without saying why, 
had desired him to set down his favourite name. He was much 
disconcerted, and did not materially mend the matter by saying it 
was the first name that came into his head. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

* Meadows trim with daisies pied.’ — M ilton. 

Ethel’s navigation lesson was interrupted by the dinner-bell. That 
long table was a goodly sight. Few ever looked happier than Dr. 
and Mrs. May, as they sat opposite to each other, presenting a con- 
siderable contrast in appearance as in disposition. She was a little 
woman, with that smooth pleasant plumpness that seems to belong 
to perfect content and serenity, her complexion fair and youthful, 
her face and figure very pretty, and full of quiet grace and refine- 
ment, and her whole air and expression denoting a serene, unruffled, 
affectionate happiness, yet with much authority in her mildness — 
warm and open in her own family, but reserved beyond it, and 
shrinking from general society. 

The Doctor, on the contrary had a lank, bony figure, nearly six 
feet high, and looking more so from his slightness-; a face sallow, 
thin, and strongly marked, an aquiline nose, highly developed fore- 
head, and peculiar temples, over which the hair strayed in thin 
curling flakes. His eyes were light-coloured, and were seldom seen 
without his near-sighted spectacles, but the expressions of the 
mouth were everything — so varying, so bright, and so sweet were 
the smiles that showed beautiful white teeth — moreover, his hand 
was particularly well made, small and delicate ; and it always 
turned out that no one ever recollected that Dr. May was plain, 
who had ever heard his kindly greeting. 

The sons and daughters were divided in likeness to father and 
mother ; Ethel was almost an exaggeration of the Doctor’s peculi- 
arities, especially at the formed, but unsoftened age of fifteen; Nor- 
man had his long nose, sallow complexion, and tall figure, but was 
much improved by his mother’s fine blue eyes, and was a very pleas- 
ant-looking boy, though not handsome ; little Tom was a thin, white, 
delicate edition of his father ; and Blanche contrived to combine 
great likeness to him with a great deal of prettiness. Of those that, 
as nurse said, favoured their mamma, Margaret was tall and bloom- 
ing, with the same calm eyes, but with the brilliance of her father’s 
Binilc ; Flora had greater regularity of feature, and was fast becom- 
ing a very pretty girl, while Mary and Harry could not boast of 
much beauty, but were stout sturdy pictures of health ; Harry’s 
locks in masses of small tight yellow curls, much given to tangling 
and matting, unfit to be seen all the week, till nurse put him to 
torture every Saturday, by combing them out so as, at least, to make 
him for once, like, she said, a gentleman, instead of a young lion. 

Little Aubrey was said by his papa to be like nothing but the 
full moon. And there he shone on them, by his mamma’s side, an- 


16 


• THE DAISY CHAIN. 


nouncing in language few could understand, where lie liad been 
with papa. 

1 He has been a small doctor,’ said his father, beginning to cut 
the boiled beef as fast as if his hands had been moved by machinery. 

1 He has been with me to see old Mrs. Robins, and she made so 
much of him, that if I take you again, you’ll be regularly spoilt, 
young master.’ 

‘ Poor old woman, it must have been a pleasure to her,’ said 
Mrs. May — 1 it is so seldom she has any change.’ 

‘ Who is she ? ’ asked Mr. Ernesclifie. 

‘ The butcher’s old mother,’ said Margaret, who was next to 
him. 1 She is one of papa’s pet patients, because he thinks her 
desolate and ill-used.’ 

1 Her sons bully her,’ said the doctor, too intent on carving to 
perceive certain deprecatory glances of caution cast at him by his 
wife, to remind him of the presence of man and maid — ‘ and that 
smart daughter is worse still. She never comes to see the old lady 
but she throws her into an agitated state, fit to bring on another 
attack. A meek old soul, not fit to contend with them ! ’ 

1 Why do they do it ? ’ said Ethel. 

1 For the cause of all evil ! That daughter marries a grazier, and 
wants to set up for gentility ; she comes and squeezes presents out 
of her mother, and the whole family are distrusting each other, and 
squabbling over the spoil before the poor old creature is dead ! It 
makes one sick ! I gave that Mrs. Thorne a bit of my mind at 
last; I could not stand the sight any longer. Madam, said I, 
you’ll have to answer for your mother’s death, as sure as my name’s 
Hick May — a harpy dressed up in feathers and lace.’ 

There was a great laugh, and an entreaty to know whether 
this was really his address — Ethel telling him she knew he had 
muttered it to himself quite audibly, for which she was rewarded 
by a pretended box on the ear. It certainly was vain to expect 
order at dinner on Saturday, for the Doctor was as bad as the boys, 
and Mrs. May took it with complete composure, hardly appearing 
sensible of the Babel which would sometimes almost deafen its 
promoter, papa ; and yet her interference was all-powerful, as now 
when Harry and Mary were sparring over the salt, with one gentle 
‘ Mary ! ’ and one reproving glance, they were reduced to quiescence. 

Meanwhile Dr. May, in a voice above the tumult, was telling 
‘ Maggie,’ as he always called his wife, some piece of news about 
Mr. Rivers, who had bought Abbotstoke Grange ; and Alan Ernes- 
cliffe, in much lower tones, saying to Margaret how he delighted in 
the sight of these home scenes, and this free household mirth. 

‘ It is the first time you have seen us in perfection,’ said Mar- 
garet, 1 with mamma at the head of the table — no, not quite per 
fection either, without Richard.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 17 

1 1 am very glad to have seen it,’ repeated Alan. ‘ What a 
blessing it must be to your brothers to have such a home ! ' 

1 Yes, indeed,’ said Margaret, earnestly. 

* I cannot fancy any advantage in life equal to it. Your father 
and mother so entirely one with you all.’ 

Margaret smiled, too much pleased to speak, and glanced at 
her mother’s sweet face. 

1 You can’t think how often I shall remember it, or how rejoiced 
I-—’ He broke off, for the noise subsided, and his speech was not 
intended for the public ear, so he dashed into the general conver- 
sation, and catching his own name, exclaimed, ‘ Wliat’s that base 
proposal, Ethel ? ’ 

‘ To put you on the donkey,’ said Norman. 

* They want to see a sailor riding,’ interposed the doctor. 

‘ Dr. May ! ’ cried the indignant voice of Hector Ernescliffe, as 
his honest Scottish face flushed like a turkey cock, ‘ I assure you 
that Alan rides like — ’ 

‘ Like a horse marine,’ said Norman. 

Hector and Harry both looked furious, but “ June ” was too 
great a man in their world, for them to attempt any revenge, and it 
was left for Mary to call out, 1 Why, Norman, nonsense ! Mr. Ernes- 
cliffe rode the new black kicking horse till he made it quite steady.’ 

1 Made it steady ! No, Mary, that is saying too much for it,’ 
said Mr. Ernescliffe. 

‘ It has no harm in it — capital horse — splendid,’ said the Doc- 
tor ; ‘I shall take you out with it this afternoon, Maggie.’ 

‘ You have driven it several times ? ’ said Alan. 

‘Yes, I drove him to Abbotstoke yesterday — never started, 
except at a fool of a woman with an umbrella, and at the train — 
and we’ll take care not to meet that.’ 

‘ It is only to avoid the viaduct at half-past four,’ said Mrs. 
May, ‘ and that is easily done.’ 

‘ So you are bound for Cocksmoor ? ’ said the Doctor. 1 1 told 
the poor fellow you were going to see his wife, and he was so 
thankful, that it did one’s heart good.’ 

1 Is he better ? I should like to tell his wife,’ said Flora. 

The Doctor screwed up his face. 1 A bad business,’ he said ; 1 ho 
is a shade better to-day ; he may get through yet ; but he is not 
my patient. I only saw him because I happened to be there when 
lie was brought in, and Ward was not in the way.’ 

‘ And what’s his name ? ’ 

‘ I can’t tell — don’t think I ever heard.’ 

‘•We ought to know,’ said Miss Winter; 1 it would be awkward 
to go without.’ 

‘ To go roaming about Cocksmoor asking where the man in tho 
hospital lives ! ’ said Flora. ‘ We can’t wait till Monday.’ 


18 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


4 I’ve done,’ said Norman ; ‘ I’ll run down to the hospital and 
find out. May I, mamma ? ’ 

I Without your pudding, old fellow ? ’ 

* I don’t want pudding,’ said Norman, slipping back his chair. 
1 May I, mamma ? ’ 

4 To be sure you may; ’ and Norman, with a hand on the back 
of Ethel’s chair, took a flying leap over his own, that set all the 
glasses ringing. 

4 Stop, stop ! know what you are going after, sir,’ cried his father. 

4 What will they know there of Cocksmoor, or the man whose wife 
has twins ? You must ask for the accident in number five.’ 

‘ And oh ! Norman, come back in time,’ said Ethel. 

4 I’ll be bound I’m back before Etheldred the Unready wants 
me,’ he answered, bounding off with an elasticity that caused his 
mother to say the boy was made of Indian rubber, and then put- 
ting his head in by the window to say, 4 By-the-by, if there’s any 
pudding owing to me, that little chorister fellow of ours, Bill 
Blake, has got a lot of voracious brothers that want anything that’s 
going. Tom and Blanche might take it down to ’em ; I’m off ! 
Hooray ! ’ and he scampered headlong up the garden, prolonging 
his voice into a tremendous shout as he got further off, leaving 
every one laughing, and his mother tenderly observing that he was 
going to run a quarter of a mile and back, and lose his only chance 
of pudding for the week — old Bishop Whichcote’s rules contem- 
plating no fare but daily mutton, to be bought at a shilling per 
sheep. A little private discussion ensued between Harry and Hec- 
tor, on the merits of the cakes at Ballhatchet’s gate, and old 
Nelly’s pies, which led the doctor to mourn over the loss of the 
tarts of the cranberries, that used to grow on Cocksmoor, before 
it was inhabited, and to be the delight of the scholars of Stone- 
borough, when he was one of them — and then to enchant the boys 
by relations of ancient exploits, especially his friend Spencer climb- 
ing up, and engraving a name on the top of the market cross, now 
no more, swept away by the Town Council in a fit of improvement, 
which had for the last twenty years enraged the Doctor at every 
remembrance of it. Perhaps at this moment his wife could hardly 
sympathize, when she thought of her boys emulating such deeds. 

‘ Papa,’ said Ethel, ‘ will you lend me a pair of spectacles for 
the walk ? ’ 

4 And make yourself one, Ethel,’ said Flora. 

I I don’t care — I want to see the view.’ 

1 It is very bad for you, Ethel,’ further added her mother ; 4 you 
will make your sight much shorter if you accustom your eyes to them.’ 

‘ Well, mamma, I never do wear them about the house.’ 

‘For a very good reason,’ said Margaret ; 4 because you haven’t 
got them.’ 

‘ No, I believe Harry stole them in the holidays.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


10 


‘ Stole them ! ’ said the Doctor ; ‘ as if they weren’t my prop- 
erty, unjustifiably appropriated by her ! ’ 

‘ They were that pair that you never could keep on, papa,’ said 
Ethel — ‘ no use at all to you. Come, do lend me some.’ 

‘ I’m sure I shan’t let you wear them,’ said Harry. ‘ 1 shan’t 
go, if you choose to make yourself such an object.’ 

‘ Ah ! ’ said the father, ‘ the boys thought it time to put a stop 
to it when it came to a caricature of the little Doctor in petticoats. 5 

‘ Yes, in Norman’s Lexicon,’ said Ethel, ‘ a capital likeness of 
you, papa ; but I never could get him to tell me who drew it.’ 

Nor did Ethel know that that caricature had been the cause of 
the black eye that Harry had brought home last summer. Harry 
returned, to protest that he would not join the walk, if she chose 
to be seen in the spectacles, while she undauntedly continued her 
petition though answered that she would attract the attacks of the 
quarry-men who would take her for an attenuated owl. 

‘ I wish you were obliged to go about without them yourself, 
papa!’ cried Ethel, ‘ and then you would know how tiresome it is 
not to see twice the length of your own nose.’ 

‘Not such a very short allowance either,’ said the Doctor, 
quaintly, and therewith the dinner concluded. There was apt to be 
a race between the two eldest girls, for the honour of bringing down 
the baby ; but this time their father strode up three steps at once, 
turned at the top -of the first flight, made his bow to them, ancl 
presently came down with his little daughter in his arms, nodded 
triumphantly at the sisters, and set her down on her mother’s lap. 

‘ There, Maggie, you are complete, you old hen-and- chicken daisy. 
Can’t you take her portrait in the character, Margaret ? ’ 

‘With her pink cap, and Blanche and Aubrey as they are now, 
on each side ? ’ said Flora. 

‘ Margaret ought to be in the picture herself,’ said Ethel. 
‘ Fetch the artist in Norman’s Lexicon, Harry.’ 

1 Since he has hit off one of us so well,’ said the doctor. 
‘ Well ! I’m off. I must see old Southern. You’ll be ready by 
three ? Good-bye, hen and chicken.’ 

‘And I may have the spectacles?’ said Ethel, running after 
him ; ‘ you know I am an injured individual, for mamma won’t let 
me carry baby about the house, because I am so blind.’ 

‘ You are welcome to embellish yourself, as far as I am con- 
cerned.’ 

A general dispersion ensued, and only Mrs. May, Margaret, 
and the baby, remained. 

‘ 0 no ! ’ sighed Margaret ; ‘ you can’t be the hen-and-chicken 
daisy properly, without all your chickens. It is the first christen- 
ing we ever had without our all being there.’ 

° ‘ It was best not to press it, my dear,’ said her mother. ‘ Your 
papa would have had his thoughts turned to the disappointment 


20 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


agaic, and it makes Rickard himself so unhappy to sec his vexation 
that I believe it is better not to renew it.’ 

1 But to miss him for so long ! ’ said Margaret. ‘ Perhaps it is 
best, for it is very miserable, when papa is sarcastic and sharp, and 
he cannot understand it, and takes it as meaning so much more 
than it really does, and grows all the more frightened and diffident 
I cannot think what he would do without you to encourage him.’ 

I Or you, you good sister,’ said her mother, smiling. * If we 
could only teach him not to mind being laughed at, and to have 
some confidence in himself, he and papa would get on together.’ 

* It is very hard,’ cried Margaret, almost indignantly, ‘ that papa 
won’t believe it, when he does his best ! ’ 

I I don’t think papa can bear to bring himself to believe that 
it is his best.’ 

1 He is too clever himself to see how other people can be slow,’ 
said Margaret ; 1 and yet ’ — the tears came into her eyes — ‘ I cannot 
bear to think of his telling Richard it was no use to think of being 
a Clergyman, and he had better turn carpenter at once, just because 
he had failed in his examination.’ 

‘ My dear, I wish you would forget that,’ said Mrs. May. ‘ You 
know papa sometimes says more than he means, and he was 
excessively vexed and disappointed. I know he was pleased with 
Ritchie’s resolve not to come home again till he had passed, and it 
is best that it should not be broken.’ 

‘ The whole vacation, studying so hard, and this Christening ! ’ 
said Margaret ; * it is treating him as if he had done wrong. I do 
believe Mr. Ernescliffe thinks he has — for papa always turns away 
the conversation, if his name is mentioned ! I wish you would 
explain it, mamma ; I can’t bear that? 

I If I can,’ said Mrs. May, rather pleased that Margaret had 
not taken on herself this vindication of her favourite brother at her 
father’s expense. 1 But after all, Margaret, I never feel quite sure 
that poor Ritchie does exert himself to the utmost ; he is too de- 
sponding to make the most of himself.’ 

‘ And the more vexed papa is, the worse it grows ! ’ said 
Margaret. 1 It is provoking, though. How I do wish sometimes 
to give Ritchie a jog, when there is some stumbling-block that he 
sticks fast at. Don’t you remember those sums, and those declen- 
sions ? When he is so clear and sensible about practical matters 
too — anything but learning — I cannot think why — and it is very 
mortifying ! ’ 

I I dare say it is very good for us not to have our ambition 
gratified,’ said her mother. 1 There are so many troubles worse 
than these failures, that it only shows how happy we are that we 
should take them so much to heart.’ 

‘ They are a very real trouble ! ’ said Margaret. 1 Don’t smile, 
mamma. Only remember how wretched his school days were, 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


21 


when papa could not see any difficulty in what to him was so hard, 
and how all papa’s eagerness only stupified him. the more.’ 

1 They are a comfort not to have that over again. Yet,’ said 
the mother, c I often think there is more fear for Norman. I dread 
his talent and -success being snares.’ 

I There is no self-sufficiency about him,’ said Margaret. 

I I hope not, and he is so transparent, that it would be laughed 
down at the first bud ; but the universal good report, and certainty 
of success, and being so often put in comparison with Richard, is 
hardly safe. I was very glad he heard what Ethel said to-day.’ 

‘ Ethel spoke very deeply,’ said Margaret ; ‘ I was a good deal 
struck by it — she often comes out with such solid thoughts.’ 

1 She is an excellent companion for Norman.’ 

1 The desire of being first ! ’ said Margaret, 1 1 suppose that is a 
form of caring for oneself ! It set me thinking a good deal, mamma, 
how many forms of ambition there are. The craving for rank, or 
wealth, or beauty, are so clearly wrong, that one does not question 
about them ; but I suppose, as Ethel said, the caring to be first in 
attainments is as bad.’ 

1 Or in affection,’ said Mrs. May. 

1 In affection — oh ! mamma, there is always some one person 
with whom one is first,’ said Margaret, eagerly; and then, her 
colour deepening, as she saw her mother looking at her, she said 
hastily, 1 Ritchie — I never considered it — but I know — it is my 
great pleasure— oh, mamma ! ’ 

1 Well, my dear, I do not say but that you are the first with 
Richard, and that you well deserve to be so ; but is the seeking to 
be the first even in that way safe ? Is it not self-seeking again ? ’ 

‘ Well, perhaps it is. I know it is what makes jealousy.’ 

1 The only plan is not to think about ourselves at all,’ said Mrs. 
May. 1 Affection is round us like sunshine, and there is no use in 
measuring and comparing. We must give it out freely ourselves, 
hoping for nothing again.’ 

1 O, mamma, you don’t mean that ! ’ 

I Perhaps I should have said, bargaining for nothing again. It 
will come of itself, if we don’t exact it ; but rivalry is the sure 
means of driving it away, because that is trying to get oneself 
worshipped.’ 

I I suppose, then, you have never thought of it,’ said Margaret, 
smiling. 

1 Why, it would have been rather absurd,’ said Mrs. May, laugh- 
ing, ‘ to begin to torment myself, whether you were all fond of me ! 
you all have just as much affection for me, from beginning to end, 
as is natural, and what’s the use of thinking about it ? No, no, 
Margaret, don’t go and protest that you love me, more than is 
natural,’ as Margaret looked inclined to say something very eager, 
that would be in the style of Regan and Goncril. It will be 


22 


THE DAISY CIIAIN. 


natural by-and-by that you should, some of you, love some one else 
better and if I cared for being first, what should I do then ? ’ 

‘ 0, mamma ! — But,’ said Margaret, suddenly, ‘ you are always 
sure of papa.’ 

‘ In one way, yes,’ said Mrs. May ; ‘ but how do I know how 
long — ’ Calm as she was, she could not finish that sentence. 
‘ No, Margaret, depend upon it, the only security is, not to think 
about ourselves at all, and not to fix our mind on any affection on 
earth. The least share of the -Love above, is the fulness of all 
blessing, and if we seek that first, all these things will be added 
unto us, and are,’ she whispered more to herself than to Margaret. 


CHAPTER III. 

■m 

* Wee modest crimson-tipped flower, 

Thon’st met me in an evil hour, 

For I maun crush amang the stoure 
Thy slender stem. 

To spare thee now is past my power. 

Thou bonnie gem.’— B urns. 

Is this all the walking party ? ’ exclaimed Mr. Emescliffe, as Miss 
Winter, Flora, and Norman gathered in the hall. 

‘ Harry won’t go because of Ethel’s spectacles,’ answered Flora ; 

‘ and Mary and he are inseparable, so they are gone with Hector to 
have a shipwreck in the field.’ 

‘ And your other sisters ? ’ 

‘ Margaret has ratted — she is going to drive out with mamma,’ 
said Norman; ‘as to Etheldred the Unready, I’ll runup and hurry 
her.’ 

‘ In a moment he was at her door. ‘ Oh ! Norman, come in 
Is it time ? ’ 

‘I should think so ! You’re keeping every one waiting.’ 

‘ Oh dear ! go on ; only just tell me the past participle of offero , 
and I’ll catch you up.’ 

‘ Oblatus .’ 

‘ 0, yes, how stupid. The a long or short? Then that’s right. 
I had such a line in my head. I was forced to write it down. Is 
not it a capital subject this time ? ’ 

‘ The devotion of Decius ? Capital. Let me see ? ’ said Nor- 
man, taking up a paper scribbled in pencil, with Latin verses. ‘ O 
you have taken up quite a different line from mine. I began with 
Mount Vesuvius spouting lava like anything.’ 

‘ But Mount Vesuvius didn’t spout till it overthrew Pompeii.’ 

1 Murder ! ’ cried Norman, ‘ I forgot ! It’s lucky you put me in 
mind. I must make a fresh beginning. There go my six best 
lines ! However, it was an uncanny place, fit for hobgoblins, and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


23 


shades, and funny customers, which will do as well for my purpose. 
Ha ! that’s grand about its being so much better than the vana 
gloria triumjphalis — only take care of the scanning there — 7 

1 If it was but English. Something like this : — 

For wliat is equal to the fame 
Of forgetting self in the aim. 

That’s not right, but — ’ 

‘ Ethel, Norman, what are you about ? ’ cried Flora, £ Do you 
mean to go to Cocksmoor to-day ? 7 

‘ Oh yes ! 7 cried Ethel, flying into vehement activity ; ‘ only 
I’ve lost my blue-edged handkerchief — Flora, have you seen it ? 7 

‘No; but here is your red scarf . 7 

‘ Thank you, there is a good Flora. And oh ! I finished a frock 
all but two stitches. Where is it gone ? Go on, all of you, I’ll 
overtake you — 

Purer than breath of earthly frame, 

Is losing self in a glorious aim. 

Is that better, Norman ? 7 

‘ You’ll drive us out of patience , 7 said Flora, tying the handker- 
chief round Ethel’s throat, and pulling out the fingers of her gloves, 
which of course were inside out ; ‘ are you ready ? 7 

‘ Oh, my frock ! my frock ! There 7 tis — three stitches — go on, 
and I’ll come , 7 said Ethel, seizing a needle, and sewing vehemently 
at a little pink frock. ‘Go on, Miss Winter goes slowly up the 
hill, and I’ll overtake you . 7 

‘ Come, Norman, then ; it is the only way to make her come at 

all . 7 

‘ I shall wait for her , 7 said Norman. ‘ Go on, Flora, we shall 
catch you up in no time ; 7 and, as Flora went, he continued, ‘ Never 
mind your aims and fames and trumpery English rhymes. Your 
verses will be much the best, Ethel ; I only went on a little about 
Mount Vesuvius and the landscape, as Alan described it the other 
day, and Decius taking a last look, knowing he was to die. I made 
him beg his horse’s pardon, and say how they will both be remem- 
bered, and their self-devotion would inspire Romans to all posterity, 
and shout with a noble voice ! 7 said Norman, repeating some of his 
lines, correcting them as he proceeded. 

‘ Oh ! yes ; but oh ! dear, I’ve done. Come along , 7 said Ethel, 
crumpling her work into a bundle, and snatching up her gloves — 
then, as they ran down stairs, and emerged into the street, ‘ it is a 
famous subject . 7 

‘ Yes, you have made a capital beginning. If you won’t break 
down somewhere, as you always do, with some frightful false 
quantity, that you would get an imposition for, if you were a boy. 
I wish you were. I should like to see old Hoxton’s face if you 
were to show him up some of these verses . 7 


24 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 I’ll tell you what, Norman, if I was you, I would not malic 
Decius flatter himself with the fame he was to get — it is too like 
the stuff every one talks in stupid books. I want him to say — 
Rome — my country — the eagles — must win, if they do — never mind 
what becomes of me.’ 

‘ But why should he not like to get the credit of it, as he did ? 
Fame and glory — they are the spirit of life, the reward of such a 
death.’ 

i 0 no, no,’ said Ethel. 1 Fame is coarse and vulgar — blinder 
than ever they draw Love or Fortune — she is only a personified 
newspaper, trumpeting out all that is extraordinary, without mind- 
ing whether it is good or bad. She misses the delicate and lovely 
— I wished they would give us a theme to write about Her. I 
should like to abuse her well.’ 

‘ It would make a very good theme, in a new line,’ said Nor- 
man ; ‘ but I don’t give into it, altogether. It is the hope and the 
thought of fame, that has made men great, from first to last. It is 
in every one that is not good for nothing, and always will be ! 
The moving spirit of man’s greatness ! ’ 

1 I’m not sure,’ said Ethel ; ‘ I think looking for fame is like 
wanting a reward at once. I had rather people forgot themselves. 
Do you think Arnold von Winkelried thought about fame, when he 
threw himself on the spears ? ’ 

1 He got it,’ said Norman. 

1 Yes; he got it for the good of other people, not to please him- 
self. Fame does those that admire it good, not those that win it.’ 

I But ! ’ said Norman, and both were silent for some short inter- 
val, as they left the last buildings of the town, and began to mount 
a steep hill. Presently Norman slackened his pace, and driving 
his stick vehemently against a stone, exclaimed, ‘ It is no use talk- 
ing, Ethel, it is all a fight and a race. One is always to try to be 
foremost. That’s the spirit of the thing — that’s what the great, from 
first to last, have struggled, and fought, and lived, and died for.’ 

I I know it is a battle, I know it is a race. The Bible says so,’ 
replied Ethel; ‘but is not there the difference, that here all may 
win — not only one ? One may do one’s best, not care whether one 
is first or last. That’s what our reading to-day said.’ 

‘ That was against trumpery vanity — false elevation — not what 
one has earned for oneself, but getting into other people’s places 
that one never deserved. That every one despises ! ’ 

‘ Of course ! That they do. I say, Norman, didn’t you mean 
Ilarvey Anderson ? ’ 

Instead of answering, Norman exclaimed, £ It is pretension that 
is hateful — true excelling is what one’s life is for. No, no, I’ll 
never be beat, Ethel — I never have been beat by any one, except 
by you, when you take pains,’ lie added, looking cxultingly at his 
sister, ‘ and I never will be.’ 


THE DAISY CXIAIK. 


25 


‘ 0 Noxman! ’ 

# * 1 mean, of course, while I have senses. I would not be like 
Richard for all the world.’ 

1 0 no, no, poor Richard ! ’ 

1 He is an excellent fellow in everything else,’ said Norman ; 1 1 
could sometimes wish I was more like him — but how he can be so 
amazingly slow, I can’t imagine. That examination paper he broke 
down in — I could have done it as easily as possible.’ 

‘ I did it all but one question,’ said Ethel, ‘ but so did he, you 
know, and we can’t tell whether we should have it done well 
enough.’ 

1 1 know I must do something respectable when first I go to 
Oxford, if I don’t wish to be known as the man whose brother was 
plucked,’ said Norman. 

‘ Yes,’ said Ethel ; ‘ if papa will but let you try for the Randall 
scholarship next year, but he says it is not good to go to Oxford so 
young.’ 

‘ And I believe I had better not be there with Richard,’ added 
Norman. 1 I don’t like coming into contrast with him, and I don’t 
think lie can like it, poor fellow, and it isn’t his fault. I had rather 
stay another year here, get one of the open scholarships, and leave 
the Stoneborough ones for those who can do no better.’ 

In justice to Norman, we must observe that this was by no 
means said as a boast. He would scarcely have thus spoken to any 
one but Etheldred, to whom, as well as to himself, it seemed mere 
matter-of-fact. The others had in the mean time halted at the top 
of the hill, and were looking back at the town — the great old Min- 
ster, raising its twin towers and long roof, close to the river, where 
rich green meadows spread over the valley, and the town rising 
irregularly on the slope above, plentifully interspersed with trees 
and gardens, and one green space on the banks of the river, speckled 
over with a flock of little black dots in rapid motion. 

1 Here you are! ’ exclaimed Flora. ‘I told them it was of rfo 
use to wait when you and Norman had begun a dissertation.’ 

1 Now, Mr. Ernesclifie, I should like you to say,’ cried Ethel, 
1 which do you think is the best, the name of it, or the thing ? ? 
Her eloquence always broke down with any auditor but her brother 
Dr, perhaps, Margaret. 

1 Ethel ! ’ said Norman, 1 how is any one to understand you ? 
The argument is this : Ethel wants people to do great deeds, and be 
Utterly careless of the fame of them ; I say, that love of glory is a 
mighty spring.’ 

1 A mighty one,’ said Alan ; 1 but I think, as far as I under- 
stand the question, that Ethel has the best of it.’ 

< 1 don’t mean that people should not serve the cause first of 
all,’ said Norman, ‘ but let them have their right place and duo 
honour.’ 

2 


26 


THE DAISY CIIAEST. 


1 They liad better make up their minds to do without it,’ said 
Alan. * Remember 

“ The world knows nothing of its greatest men.” 

Then it is a great shame,’ said Norman. 

1 But do you think it right,’ said Ethel, 1 to care for distinction ? 
It is a great thing to earn it, but I don’t think one should care for 
the outer glory.’ 

‘I believe it is a great temptation,’ said Alan. 1 The being over 
elated or over depressed by success or failure in the eyes of the 
world, independently of the exertion we have used — ’ 

1 You call it a temptation ? ’ said Ethel 

‘ Decidedly so.’ 

‘ But one can’t live or get on without it,’ said Norman. 

There they were cut short. There was a plantation to be 
crossed, with a gate that would not open, and that seemed an effect- 
ual barrier against both Miss Winter and the donkey, until by 
persuasive eloquence and great gallantry, Mr. Ernescliffe per- 
formed the wonderful feat of getting the former over the tall fence 
while Norman conducted the donkey a long way round, undertak- 
ing to meet them at the other side of the plantation. 

The talk became desultory, as they proceeded for at least a 
mile along, a cart-track, through soft tufted grass and heath, and 
young fir trees. It ended in a broad open moorj stony and full of 
damp boggy hollows, forlorn and desolate under the autumn sky. 
Here they met Norman again, and walked on along a very rough 
and dirty road, the ground growing more decidedly into hills and 
valleys as they advanced, till they found themselves before a small, 
but very steep hillock, one side of which was cut away into a slate 
quarry. Round this stood a colony of roughly-built huts, of mud, 
turf, or large blocks of the slate. Many workmen were engaged 
in splitting up the slates, or loading waggons with them, rude, wild- 
lOoking men, at the sight of whom the ladies shrank up to their 
protectors, but who seemed too busy even to spare time for staring 
at them. ' 

They were directed to John Taylor’s house, a low mud cottage, 
very wretched looking, and apparently so smoky, that Mr. Ernes- 
cliffe and Norman were glad to remain outside and survey tho 
quarry, while the ladies entered. 

Inside they found more oleanliness and neatness than they had 
expected, but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient 
furniture, and the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding 
nothing but toast and water, as a substitute for their proper con- 
tents. The poor woman was sitting by the fire with one twin on 
her lap, and the other on a chair by her side, and a larger child 
was in the corner by the fire, looking heavy and ill, while others of 
different ages lounged about listlessly. She was not untidy, but 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


27 


rory pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way, as it tlie ills of 
life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even to complain. 
She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not visibly 
brighten when told that her husband was better. 

Flora asked when the babes would be christened. 

‘ I can’t hardly tell, Miss — ’tis so far to go.’ 

‘I suppose none of the children can go to school. I don’t 
know their faces there,’ said Flora, looking at a nice, tall, smooth 
haired girl, of thirteen or fourteen. 

1 No, Miss — ’tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they 
always was used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl, 
she can work very nicely. I wish I could get a little place for 
her.’ 

1 You would hardly know what to do without her,’ said Miss 
Winter. 

1 No, ma’am ; but she wants better food than I can give her, 
and it is a bad wild place for a girl to grow up. It is not like 
what I was used to, ma’am; I wa| always used to keep to my 
school and to my Church — but it is a bad place to live in here.’ 

No one could deny it, and the party left the cottage gravely. 
Alan and Norman joined them, having heard a grievous history of 
the lawlessness of the people, from a foreman with whom they had 
met. There seemed to be no visible means of improvement. The 
parish Church was Stoneborough, and there the living was very 
poor, the tithes having been appropriated to the old Monastery, 
and since its dissolution having fallen into possession of a Body 
that never did anything for the town. The incumbent, Mr. Bams* 
den, had small means, and was not a high stamp of Clergyman, 
seldom exerting himself, and leaving most of his parish work to 
the two undermasters of the school, Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Harri- 
son, who did all they had time and strength for, and more too, with- 
in the town itself. There was no hope for Cocksmoor ! 

1 There would be a worthy ambition ! ’ said Etheldred, as they 
turned their steps homeward. ‘ Let us propose that aim to our- 
selves, to build a Church on Cocksmoor ! ’ 

* How many years do you give us to do it in ? ’ said Norman. 

4 Few or many, I don’t care. I’ll never leave off thinking aboui 
it till it is done.’ 

1 It need not be long,’ said Flora, 1 if one could get up a sub- 
scription.’ 

1 A penny subscription ? ’ said Norman. ‘ I’d rather have it 
my own doing.’ 

1 You agree then,’ said Ethel, 1 do you, Mr. Ernescliffe ? ’ 

‘ I may safely do so,’ he answered, smiling. 

Miss Winter looked at Etheldred reprovingly, and she shrank 
into herself, drew apart, and indulged in a reverie. She had heard 
in books, of girls writing poetry, romance, history — gaining fifties 


38 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and hundreds. Could not some of the myriads of fancies floating 
in her mind thus he made available ? She would compose, publish, 
earn money — some day call papa, show him her hoard, beg him to 
take it, and, never owning whence it came, raise the building. 
Spire and chancel — pinnacle and buttress rose before her eyes— 
and she and Norman were standing in the porch, with an orderly, 
religious population, blessing the unknown benefactor, who had 
caused the news of salvation to be heard among them. 

They were almost at home, when the sight of a crowd in t »ho 
main street checked them. Norman and Mr. Ernescliffe went for- 
ward to discover the cause, and spoke to some one on the outskirts — 
then Mr. Ernescliffe hurried back to the ladies. 1 There’s been an 
accident,’ he said, hastily — ‘ you had better go down the lane an 1 
m by the garden.’ 

lie was gone in an instant, and they obeyed in silence. Whence 
came Ethel’s certainty that the accident concerned themselves ? In 
an agony of apprehension, though without one outward sign of it, she 
walked home. They were in the garden — all was apparently as usual, 
but no one was in sight. Ethel had been first, but she held back, 
and let Miss Winter go forward into the house. The front door 
was open — servants were standing about in confusion, and one of 
the maids, looking dreadfully frightened, gave a cry, 1 Oh ! Miss — 
Miss — have you heard ? ’ 

‘ No — what ? What has happened ? Not Mrs. May — ’ exclaimed 
Miss Winter. 

“ Oh ! ma’am ! it is all of them. The carriage is overturned, 
and — ’ 

‘ Who’s hurt ? Mamma ! papa ! Oh ! tell me ! ’ cried Flora. 

‘ There’s the nurse,’ and Ethel flew up to her. ‘ What is it ? Oh l 
nurse ! * 

‘ My poor, poor children,’ said old nurse, passionately kissing 
Ethel. Harry and Mary were on the stairs behind hev, clinging 
together. 

A stranger looked into the house, followed by Adams, the sta- 
bleman. ‘ They are going to bring Miss May in,’ some one said. 

Ethel could bear it no longer. As if she could escape, she fled up- 
stairs, into her room, and, falling on her knees, hid her face on her bed. 

There were heavy steps in the house, then a sound of hasty feet 
coming up to her. Norman dashed into the room, and threw him- 
self on a chair. He was ghastly pale, and shuddered all over. 

‘ Oh! Norman, Norman, speak. What is it?’ 

He groaned, but could not speak ; he rested his head against her, 
and gasped. She was terribly frightened. ‘ I’ll call — ’ and she would 
have gone, but he held her. ‘ No, — no — they can’t !’ He was pre- 
vented from saying more, by chattering teeth and deadly faintness. 
She tried to support him, but could only guide him as he sank, til] 
he lay at full length on the floor, where she put a pillow under his 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 29 

head, and gave him some water. ‘ Is it — oh ! tell me. Are they 
much hurt ? Oh, try to say.’ 

‘ They say Margaret is alive,’ said Norman, in gasps ; ‘ hut — 
And papa — he stood up — sat — walked — was better — ’ 

‘ Is he hurt — much hurt ? ’ 

‘ His arm — ’ and the tremor and fainting stopped him again. 
‘Mamma?’ whispered Ethel; but Norman only pressed his 
face into the pillow. 

She was so bewildered as to be more alive to the present dis- 
tress of his condition, than to the vague horrors down-stairs. Some 
minutes passed in silence, Norman lying still, excepting a nervous 
trembling that agitated his whole frame. Again was heard the 
strange tread, doors opening and shutting, and suppressed voices, 
and he turned his face upwards, and listened with his hand pressed 
to his forehead, as if to keep himself still enough to listen. 

‘ Oh ! what is the matter ? What is it ? ’ cried Ethel, startled and 
recalled to the sense of what was passing. ‘ Oh ! Norman ! ’ then 
springing up, with a sudden thought, ‘ Mr. Ward ! Oh ! is he there ? ’ 
‘ Yes,’ said Norman, in a low hopeless tone, ‘ he was at the place, 
lie said it — ’ 

‘ What ? ’ 

Again Norman’s face was out of sight. 

‘ Mamma ? ’ Ethel’s understanding perceived, but her mind 
refused to grasp the extent of the calamity. There was no answer, 
save a convulsive squeezing of her hand. 

Fresh sounds below recalled her to speech and action. ‘ Where 
is she ? What are they doing for her ? What — ’ 

‘ There’s nothing to be done. She — when they lifted her up, 
she was — ’ 

‘Dead ?’ 

‘ Dead.’ 

The boy lay with his face hidden, the girl sat by him on the 
floor, too much crushed for even the sensations belonging to grief, 
neither moving nor looking. After an interval Norman spoke again, 
‘ The carriage turned right over — her head struck on the kerb stone — ’ 
‘ Did you see ? ’ said Ethel, presently. 

‘ I saw them lift her up.’ He spoke at intervals as he could 
get- breath, and bear to utter the words. ‘And papa — he was 
stunned — but soon he sat up, said he would go to her — he looked 
at her — felt her pulse, and then — sank down over her ! ’ 

‘ And did you say, I can’t remember — was he hurt ? * 

The shuddering came again, ‘ His arm — all twisted — broken,’ 
and his voice sank into a faint whisper ; Ethel was obliged to 
sprinkle him again with water. ‘ But he won’t die ? ’ said she, in 
a tone calm from its bewilderment. 

‘ Oh ! no, no, no — * 

‘ And Margaret ? 


so 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


4 They were bringing her home. I’ll go and see. Oh ! what’s 
the meaning of this ? ’ exclaimed he, scolding himself, as sitting up, 
he was forced to rest his head on his shaking hand. 

4 You are still faint, dear Norman: you had better lie still, and 
I’ll go and see.’ 

4 Faint — stuff — how horridly stupid ! ’ but he was obliged to lay 
his head down again ; and Ethel, scarcely less trembling, crept 
carefully towards the stairs, but a dread of what she might meet 
came over her, and she turned towards the nursery. 

The younger ones sat there in a frightened huddle. Mary was 
on a low chair by the infant’s cot, Blanche in her lap, Tom and 
Harry leaning against her, and Aubrey almost asleep. Mary held 
up her finger as Ethel entered, and whispered, ‘ Hush ! don’t wake 
baby for anything ! ’ 

The first true pang of grief shot through Ethel like a dart, 
stabbing and taking away her breath. 4 Where are they ? ’ she said ; 
4 how is papa ? who is with him ? ’ 

4 Mr. Ward and Alan Ernescliffe,’ said Harry. 4 Nurse came 
up just now, and said they were setting his arm.’ 

4 Where is he ? ’ 

4 On the bed in his dressing-room,’ said Harry. 

4 Has he come to himself — is he better ? ’ 

They did not seem to know, and Ethel asked where to find 
Flora. 4 With Margaret she was told, and she was thinking whe- 
ther sho could venture to seek her, when she herself came fast up 
the stain Ethel and Harry both darted out. ‘Don’t stop me,’ 
said Flora — 4 they want some handkerchiefs.’ 

4 What, is not she in her own room? ’ 

4 No,’ said Harry, 4 in mamma’s ; ’ and then his face quivered all 
over, and he turned away. Ethel ran after her sister, and pullmg 
out drawers without knowing what she sought, begged to hear how 
papa and Margaret were. 

4 We can’t judge of Margaret — she has moved, and made a little 
moaning — there are no limbs broken, but we are afraid for her 
head. Oh ! if papa could but — ’ 

4 And papa ? ’ 

4 Mr. Ward is with him now — his arm is terribly hurt.’ 

4 But oh ! Flora — one moment — is he sensible ? ’ 

4 Hardly ; he does not take any notice — but don’t keep me.’ 

4 Can I do anything ? ’ following her to the head of the stairs. 

4 No ; I don’t see what you can do. Miss Winter and I are 
with Margaret , there’s nothing to do for her.’ 

It was a relief. Etheldred shrank from what she might have 
to behold, and Flora hastened down, too busy and too useful to 
have time to think. Harry had gone back to his refuge in the 
nursery, and Ethel returned to Norman. There they remained for 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


31 


a long time, both unwilling to speak or stir, or even to observe to 
each other on the noises that came into them, as their door was 
left ajar, though in those sounds they were so absorbed, that they 
did not notice the cold of a frosty October evening, or the darkness 
that closed in on them. 

They heard the poor babe crying, one of the children going 
down to call nurse, and nurse coming up ; then Harry, at the door 
of the room whe’Ie the boys slept, calling Norman in a low voice. 
Norman, now nearly recovered, went and brought him into his 
sister’s room, and his tidings were, that their father’s arm had been 
broken in two places, and the elbow frightfully injured, having been 
crushed and twisted by the wheel. He was also a good deal bruised, 
and though Mr. Ward trusted there was no positive harm to the 
head, he was in an unconscious state, from which the severe pain 
of the operation had only roused him, so far as to evince a few 
signs of suffering. Margaret was still insensible. 

The piteous sound of the baby’s wailing almost broke their 
hearts. Norman walked about the room in the dark, and said he 
should go down, he could not bear it ; but he could not make up 
his mind to go, and after about a quarter of an hour, to their great 
relief, it ceased. 

Next Mary opened the door, saying, ‘Norman, here’s Mr. Wil- 
mot come to ask if he can do anything — Miss Winter sent word 
that you had better go to him.’ 

‘ How is baby ? ’ asked Harry. 

‘Nurse has fed her, and is putting her to bed; she is quiet 
now,’ said Mary: ‘ will you go down, Norman?’ 

‘Where is he?’ 

* In the drawing-room.’ 

Norman paused to ask what he was to say. ‘ Nothing,’ said 
Mary, ‘ nobody can do anything. Make haste. Don’t you want a 
candle ? 

‘ No, thank you, I had rather be in the dark. Come up as soon 
as you have seen him,’ said Etheldred. 

Norman went slowly down, with failing knees, hardly able to 
conquer the shudder that came over him, as he passed those rooms. 
There were voices in the drawing-room, and he found a sort of 
council there, Alan Ernescliffe, the surgeon, and Mr. Wilmot. They 
turned as he came in, and Mr. Wilmot held out his hand with a 
look of affection and kindness that went to his heart, making room 
for hmi on the sofa, while going on with what he was saying. ‘ Then 
you think it would be better for me not to sit up with him.’ 

‘ I should decidedly say so,’ replied Mr. Ward. ‘ He has recog- 
nised Mr. Ernescliffe, and any change might excite him, and lead 
him to ask questions. The moment of his full consciousness is 
especially to be dreaded 1 

‘ But you do not call him insensible? ’ 


32 


THE DAISY CHAIN, 


4 No, but he seems stunned — stupified by the shock, and by pain 
He spoke to Miss Flora when she brought him some tea.’ 

4 And admirably she managed,’ said Alan Ernescliffe. 4 I was 
much afraid of some answer that would rouse him, but she kept 
her self-possession beautifully, and seemed to compose him in a 
moment.’ 

4 She is valuable indeed — so much judgment and activity,’ said 
Mr. Ward. 4 I don’t know what we should have done without her. 
But we ought to have Mr. Richard — has no one sent to him ? ’ 

Alan Ernescliffe and Norman looked at each other. 

4 Is he at Oxford, or at his tutor’s ? ’ asked Mr. Wilmot. 

4 At Oxford ; he was to be there to-day, was he not, Norman ? ’ 

4 What o’clock is it ? Is the post gone — seven — no ; it is all 
safe,’ said Mr. Ward. 

Poor Norman ! he knew he was the one who cught to write, but 
his icy trembling hand seemed to shake more helplessly than ever, 
and a piteous glance fell upon Mr. Wilmot. 

4 The best plan would be,’ said Mr. Wilmot, 4 for me to go to 
him at once, and bring him home. If I go by the mail-train, I shall 
get to him sooner than a letter could.’ 

4 And it will be better for him,’ said Mr. Ward. 4 He will feel 
it dreadfully, poor boy. But we shall all do better when we have 
him. You can get back to-morrow evening.’ 

4 Sunday,’ said Mr. Wilmot, 4 1 believe there is a train at four.' 

4 Oh ! thank you, sir,’ said Norman. 

4 Since that is settled, perhaps I had better go up to the Doctor,’ 
said Alan ; 4 1 don’t like leaving Flora alone with him,’ and he was 
gone. 

4 How fortunate that that youth i3 here,’ said Mr. Wilmot — 4 he 
seems to be quite taking Richard’s place.’ 

4 And to feel it as much,’ said Mr. Ward. 4 He has been inval- 
uable with his sailor’s resources and handiness.’ 

4 Well, what shall I tell poor Richard? ’ asked Mr. Wilmot. 

4 Tell him there is no reason his father should not do very well, 
if we can keep him from agitation — but there’s the point. He is 
of so excitable a constitution, that his faculties being so far con- 
fused, is the -best thing, perhaps, that could be. Mr. Ernescliffe 
manages him very well — used to illness on that African coast, and 
the Doctor is very fond of him. As to Miss May, one can’t tell 
what to say about her yet — there’s no fracture, at least — it must 
be a work of time to judge.’ 

Flora at that moment half-opened the door, and called Mr. 
Ward, stopping for a moment to say it was for nothing of any conse- 
quence. Mr. Wilmot and Norman were left together. Norman 
put his hands over his face and groaned — his master looked at him 
with kind anxiety, but did not feel as if it were yet time' to speaL* 
of consolation 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


33 


‘ Grod bless and support you, and turn this to your good, mj 
dear boy,’ said he affectionately, as he pressed his hand , 1 1 hope 
to bring your brother to-morrow.’ 

‘ Thank you, sir,’ was all Norman could say; and as Mr. Wilmot 
went out by the front door, he slowly went up again, and lingering 
on the landing-place, was met by Mr. Ward, who told him to his 
relief — for the mere thinking of it renewed the faint sensation— 
that he had better not go to his father’s room. 

There was nothing to be done but to return to Ethel and Harry 
and tell them all ; with some humiliation at being helpless, where 
Flora was doing so much, and to leave their father to be watched 
by a stranger. If lie had been wanted, Norman might have made 
the effort, but being told that he would be worse than useless, there 
was nothing for him but to give way. 

They sat together in Ethel’s room, till somewhere between eight 
and nine o’clock, when good old nurse, having put her younger 
ones to bed, came in search of them. ‘ Dear, dear ! poor darlings,’ 
said she, as she found them sitting in the dark ; she felt their cold 
hands, and made them all come into the nursery, where Mary was 
already, and, fondling them, one by one, as they passively obeyed 
her, she set them down on their little old stools round the fire, took 
away the high fender, and gave them each a cup of tea. Harry and 
Mary ate enough to satisfy her, from a weary craving feeling, and 
for want of employment ; Norman sat with his elbow on his knee, 
and a very aching head resting on his hand, glad of drink, but 
unable to eat ; Ethel could be persuaded to do neither, till she 
found old nurse would let her have no peace. 

The nurse sent them all to bed, taking the two girls to their 
own room, undressing them, and never leaving them until Mary 
was in a fair way of crying herself to sleep— for saying her prayers 
had brought the tears; while Ethel lay so wide awake that it was 
of no use to wait for her, and then she went to the boys, tucked 
them each in, as when they were little children, and saying, ‘ Bless 
your dear hearts ! ’ bestowed on each of them a kiss which camp 
gratefully to Norman’s burning brow, and which even Harry’s boy* 
ish manliness could not resist. 

Flora was in Margaret’s room, too useful to be spared. 

So ended that dreadful Saturday. 


34 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


CHAPTER IV. 

. ‘They may not mar tbo deep repoaj 
Of that immortal flower : 

Though only broken hearts are fourd 
To watch her cradle by, 

No blight is on her slumbers found, 

No touch of harmful eye.’ 

Lyea. Innocentium. 

Such a strange sad Sunday ! No going to Church, but all the poor 
children moving in awe and oppression about the house, speaking 
under their breath, as they gathered in the drawing-room. Into 
the study they might not go, and when Blanche would ho7C asked 
why, Tom pressed her hand and shuddered. 

Etheldred was allowed to come and look at Margaret, and even 
to sit in the room for a little while, to take the place of Miss Win- 
ter ; but she was not sensible of sufficient usefulness to relieve the 
burden of fear and bewilderment in the presence of that still, pale 
form ; and, what was almost worse, the sight of the familiar objects, 
the chair by the fire, the sofa, the books, the work-basket, the letter- 
case, the dressing things, all these were too oppressive. She sat 
crouched up, with her face hidden in her hands, and the instant she 
was released, hastened back to Norman. She was to tell him that 
he might go into the room, but he did not move, and Mary alone 
went in and out with messages. 

Dr. May was not to be visited, for he was in the same half- 
conscious state, apparently sensible-only of bodily suffering, though 
he answered when addressed, and no one was trusted to speak to 
him but Flora and Alan Ernescliffe. 

The rest wore through the day as best they might. Harry 
slept a good deal, Ethel read to herself, and tried to get Norman 
to look at passages which she liked, Mary kept the little ones from 
being troublesome, and at last took them to peep behind the school- 
room blinds for Richard’s coming. 

There was a simultaneous shout when, at four o’clock, they 
caught sight of him, and though, at Ethel’s exclamation of wonder, 
Mary and Tom hung their heads at having forgotten themselves, 
the association of gladness in seeing Richard was refreshing ; the 
sense of being desolate and forsaken was relieved, and they knew 
that now they had one to rely on and to comfort them. 

Harry hastened to open the front door, and Richard, with his 
small trim figure, and fresh, fair young face, flushed, though not 
otherwise agitated, was among them, almost devoured by the younger 
ones, and dealing out quiet caresses to them, as he caught from the 
words and looks of the others, that at least his father and sister 
were no worse. Mr. Wilmot had come with him, but only staid to 
hoar the tidings. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


So 

1 Can I see papa ? ’ were Richard’s first audible words — all tlio 
rest had been almost dumb show. 

Ethel thought not, but took him to Margaret’s room, where he 
stood for many minutes without speaking ; then whispered to Flora 
that he must go to the others, she should call* him if — and went 
down, followed by Ethel. 

Tom and Blanche had fallen into teazing tricks, a sort of melan- 
choly play to relieve the tedium. They grew cross. Norman was 
roused to reprove sharply, and Blanche was beginning to cry. But 
Richard’s entrance set all at peace — he sat down among them, and, 
with soft voice and arm round Blanche, as she leaned against him, 
made her good in a moment ; and she listened while he talked 
over with Norman and Ethel all they could bear to speak of. 

Late in the day, Flora came into her father’s room, and stood 
gazing at him, as he lay with eyes closed, breathing heavily, and 
his brows contracted by pain. She watched him with piteous looks, 
as if imploring him to return to his children. Poor girl, to-day’s 
quiet, after the last evening’s bustle, was hard to bear. She had 
then been distracted from thought by the necessity of exertion, but 
it now repayed itself, and she knew not how to submit to do nothing 
but wait and watch. 

1 No change ? ’ enquired Alan Erncseliffe ; looking kindly in her 
face. 

‘ No,’ replied she in a low, mournful tone. £ She only once said ' 
thank you.’ 

A voice which she did not expect, asked inquiringly, ‘ Marga- 
ret ? ’ and her heart beat as if it would take away her breath, as 
she saw her father’s eyes intently fixed on her. ‘ Bid you speak of 
her ? ’ he repeated. 

‘ Yes, dear papa,’ said Flora, not losing presence of mind, though 
in extreme fear of what the next question might be. 1 She is quiet 
and comfortable, so don’t be uneasy, pray.’ 

1 Let me hear,’ he said, and his whole voice and air showed him 
to be entirely roused. 4 There is injury ? What is it — ’ 

He continued his inquiries till Flora was obliged fully to explain 
her sister’s condition, and then he dismayed her by saying lie would 
get up and go to see her. Much distressed, she begged him not to 
think of it, and appealed to Alan, who added his entreaties that he 
would at least wait for Mr. Ward ; but the Doctor would not relin- 
quish his purpose, and sent her to give notice that he was coming. 

Mr. ErnesclifFe followed her out of the room, and tried to con- 
sole her, as she looked at him in despair. 

‘ You see he is quite himself, quite collected,’ he said ; 4 you heard 
how clear and coherent his questions were.’ 

‘ Can’t it be helped ? Do try to stop him till I can send to Mr 
Ward.’ 

4 1 will try, but I think he is in a state to judge for himself. I 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


36 

do, upon my word ; and I believe trying to prevent him would bt 
more likely to do him harm than letting him satisfy himself. I real' 
ly think you need not be alarmed.’ 

‘ But you know,’ said Flora, coming nearer, and almost gasping as 
she whispered and signed toward the door, ‘ she is there — it is mam- 
ma’s room, that will tell all.’ 

< I believe he knows,’ said Alan. ‘ It was that which made him 
faint after the accident, for he had his perceptions fully at first. I have 
suspected all day that he was more himself than he seemed, but I think 
he could not bear to awaken his mind to understand it, and that he was 
afraid to hear about her — your sister, so that our mention of her was a 
great relief, and did him good. I am convinced he knows the rest. 
Only go on, be calm, as you have been, and we shall do very well.’ 

Flora went to prepare. Ethel eagerly undertook to send to Mr. 
Ward, and hastened from the room, as if in a sort of terror, shrink- 
ing perhaps from what might lead to an outburst of grief. She 
longed to have seen her father, but was frightened at the chance of 
meeting him. When she had sent her message, and told her brothers 
what was passing, she went and lingered on the stairs and in the pas- 
sage for tidings. After what seemed a long time, Flora came out, and 
hastened to the nursery, giving her intelligence on the way. 

1 Better than could be hoped, he walked alone into the room, and 
was quite calm and composed. Oh ! if this will not hurt him, if the 
seeing baby was but over ! ’ 

‘ Does he want her ? ’ 

1 Yes, he would have come up here himself, but I would not let. 
him — Nurse, do you hear ? Papa wants baby, let me have her.’ 

1 Bless me, Miss Flora, you can’t hold her while you are all of a 
tremble ! And he has been to Miss Margaret ? ’ 

‘ Yes, nurse, and he was only rather stiff and lame.’ 

1 Did Margaret seem to know him ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ She just answered in that dreamy way when he spoke to her. 
He says he thinks it is as Mr. Ward believes, and that she will soon 
come to herself. He is quite able to consider — ’ 

‘ And he knows all ? ’ 

‘ I am sure he does. He desired' to see baby, and he wants you, 
nurse. Only mind you command yourself — don’t say a word you can 
help — do nothing to agitate him.’ 

Nurse promised, but the tears came so fast, and sobs with them, as 
she approached her master’s room, that Flora saw no composure could 
be expected from her ; and taking the infant from her, carried it in, 
leaving the door open for her to follow when wanted. Ethel stood 
by listening. There was silence at first, then some sounds from the 
baby, and her father’s voice soothing it, in his wonted caressing 
phrases and tones, so familiar that they seemed to break the spell, 
drive away her vague terrors, and restore her father. Her heart 
bounded, and a sudden impulse carried her to the bedside, at 


TIIE DAIS'S CHAIN. 


37 


once forgetting all dread of seeing him, and chance of doing him 
harm. Pie lay, holding the babe close to him, and his face was not 
altered, so that there was nothing in the sight to impress her with the 
need of caution, and, to the consternation of the anxious Flora, she 
exclaimed, abruptly and vehemently, c Papa ! should not she be 
Christened ? ’ 

Dr. May looked up at Ethel, then at the infant ; ‘ Yes,’ he said, ‘ at 
once.’ Then added feebly and languidly, 1 Some one must see to it. 1 

There was a pause, while Flora looked reproachfully at her sister, 
and Ethel became conscious of her imprudence, but in a few moments 
Dr. May spoke again, first to the baby, and then asking , 1 Is Richard 
here ? ’ 

‘ Yes, papa.’ 

1 Send him up presently. Where’s nurse ? 1 

Ethel retreated, much alarmed at her rash measuie, and when she 
related it, she saw that Richard and Mr. Ernescliffe both thought it 
had been a great hazard. 

‘ Papa wants you,’ was a welcome sound to the ears of Richard, 
and brought a pink glow into his face. He was never one who readily 
showed his feelings, and there was no danger of his failing in self- 
command, though grievously downcast, not only at the loss of the 
tender mother, who had always stood between him and his father’s im- 
patience, hut by the dread that he was too dull and insignificant to 
afford any help or comfort in his father’s dire affliction. 

Yet there was something in the gentle sad look that met him, and 
in the low tone of the 1 How d’ye do, Ritchie-? ’ that drove off all 
thought of not being loved ; and when Dr. May further added, £ You’ll 
see about it all — I am glad you are come,’ he knew he was of use, 
and was encouraged and cheered. That his father had full confi- 
dence and reliance in him, and that his presence was a satisfaction and 
relief, he could no longer doubt ; and this was a drop of balm beyond 
all his hopes ; for loving and admiring his father intensely, and with 
depressed spirits and a low estimate of himself, he had begun to fancy 
himself incapable of being anything but a vexation and burthen. 

He sat with his father nearly all the evening, and was to remain 
with him at night. The rest were comforted by, the assurance that 
Dr. May was still calm, and did not seem to have been injured by 
what had passed. Indeed, it seemed as if the violence and sudden- 
ness of the shock, together with his state of suffering, had deadened 
his sensations ; for there was far less agitation about him than could 
have been thought possible in a man of such strong, warm affections 
and sensitive temperament. 

Ethel and Norman went up arm-in-arm at bed-time. 

‘ I am going to ask if I may wish papa good night,’ said Ethel 
Shall I say anything about your coming ? ’ 

Norman hesitated, but his cheeks blanched ; he shuddered, shook 


38 • 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


his head without speaking, ran up after Harry, and waved her back 
when she would have followed. 

Richard told her that she might come in, and, as she slowly ad- 
vanced, she thought she had never seen anything so ineffably mourn- 
ful as the affectionate look on her father’s face. She held his hand 
and ventured — for it was with difficulty she spoke — to hope he was 
not in pain. 

‘ Better than it was, thank you, my dear,’ he said, in a soft weak 
tone; then, as she bent down to kiss his brow, ‘ You must take care 
of the little ones.’ 

1 Yes, papa,’ she could hardly answer, and a large drop gathered 
slowly in each eye, long in coming, as if the heart ached too much 
for them to flow freely. 

‘ Are they all well ? ’ « 

‘Yes, papa.’ 

‘ And good ? ’ He held her hand, as if lengthening the interview. 

‘ Yes, very good all day.’ 

A long deep sigh. Ethel’s two tears stood on her cheeks. 

‘ My love to them all. I hope I shall see them to-morrow. God 
"bless you, my dear, good night.’ 

Ethel went up-stairs, saddened and yet soothed. The calm silent 
sorrow, too deep for outward tokens, was so unlike her father’s usu- 
ally demonstrative habits, as to impress her all the more, yet those 
two tears were followed by no more ; there was much strangeness and 
confusion in her mind in the newness of grief. 

She found poor Flora, spent with exertion under the reaction of 
all she had undergone, lying on her bed, sobbing as if her heart 
would break, calling in gasps of irrepressible agony on mamma ! 
mamma ! yet with her face pressed down on the pillow that she might 
not be heard. Ethel, terrified and distressed, timidly implored her 
to be comforted, but it seemed as if she were not even heard ; she 
would have fetched some one, but whom ? Alas ! alas ! it brought 
back the sense that no mother would ever soothe them — Margaret, 
papa, both so ill, nurse engaged with Margaret ! Ethel stood help- 
less and despairing, and Flora sobbed on, so that Mary awakened to 
burst out in a loud frightened fit of crying ; but in a few moments 
a step was heard at the door, a knock, and Richard asked, ‘ Is any- 
thing the matter ? ’ 

He was in the room in a moment, caressing and saying affectionate 
things with gentleness and fondling care, like his mother, and which 
recalled the days when he had been proud to be left for a little while 
the small nurse and guardian of the lesser ones. Mary was hushed 
in a moment, and Flora’s exhausted weeping was gradually soothed, 
when she was able to recollect that she was keeping him from her 
father ; with kind good nights, he left Ethel to read to her till she 
could sleep. Long did Ethel read, after both her sisters were slum- 
bering soundly ; she weu t on in a sort of dreamy grief, almost devoid 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


39 


of pain, as if all this was too terrible to be true ; and she had im- 
agined herself into a story, which would give place at dawn to her 
ordinary life. 

At last she went to bed, and slept till wakened by the return of 
Flora, who had crept down in her dressing-gown to see how matters 
were going. Margaret was in the same state, papa was asleep, after 
a restless distressing night, with much pain and some fever; and 
whenever Richard had begun to hope from his tranquillity, that he 
was falling asleep, he was undeceived by hearing an almost uncon- 
sciously uttered sigh of ‘ Maggie, my Maggie ! ’ and then the head 
turned wearily on the pillow, as if worn out with the misery from 
which there was no escape. Towards morning, the pain had lessened, 
and, as he slept, he seemed much less feverish than they could have 
ventured to expect. 

Norman looked wan and wretched, and could taste no breakfast , 
indeed Harry reported that he had been starting and talking in nis 
sleep half the night, and had proceeded to groaning and crying oat 
till, when it could be borne no longer, Harry waked him, and finished 
his night’s rest in peace. 

The children were kept in the drawing room that morning, and 
there were strange steps in the house ; but only Richard and Mr. 
Ernescliffe knew the reason. Happily there had been witnesses 
enough of the overturn to spare any reference to Dr. May — the 
violent start of the horses had been seen, and Adams and Mr. Ernes- 
cliffe agreed, under their breath, that the new black one was not fit 
to drive, while the whole town was so used to Dr. May’s headlong 
driving, that every one was recollecting their own predictions of ac- 
cidents. There needed little to account for the disaster — tin only 
wonder was, that it had nat happened sooner. 

‘ I say,’ announced Harry, soon after they were released again, 
‘ I’ve been in to papa. His door was open, and he heard me, and 
called me. He says he should like any of us to come in and see 
him. Hadn’t you better go, Norman ? ’ 

Norman started up, and walked hastily out of the room, but his 
hand shook so, that he could hardly open the door ; and Ethel, see- 
ing how it was with him, followed him quickly, as lie dashed, at full 
speed, up the stairs. At the top, however, he was forced to cling to 
the rail, gasping for breath, while the moisture started on his forehead. 

I Dear Norman,’ she said, ‘ there’s nothing to mind. He looks 
<ust as usual. You would not know there was anything the matter.’ 
But he rested his head on his hand, and looked as if he could not stir. 

‘ I see it won’t do,’ said Ethel — ‘ don’t try — you will be better by- 
and-by, and he has not asked for you in particular.’ 

I I won’t be beat by such stuff,’ said Norman, stepping hastily 
forwards, and opening the door suddenly. He got through the greet- 
ing pretty well, there was no need for him to speak, he only gave his 
hand and looked away, unable to bring himself to turn his eyes on his 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


40 

father, and afraid of letting liis own face be seen. Almost at the 
same moment, nurse came to say something about Margaret, and he 
seized the opportunity of withdrawing his hand, and hurrying away, 
in good time, for he was pale as death, and was obliged to sit down 
on the head of the stairs, and lean his head against Etheldred. 

1 What does make me so ridiculous ? ’ he exclaimed faintly, but 
very indignantly. 

The first cure was the being forced to clear out of Mr. Ward’s 
way, which he could not effect without being seen ; and Ethel, though 
she knew that he would be annoyed, was not sorry to be obliged to 
remain, and tell what was the matter with him. ‘Oh,’ said Mr. 
Ward, turning and proceeding to the dining-room, ‘ I’ll set that to 
rights in a minute, if you will ask for a tumbler of hot- water, Miss 
Ethel.’ 

And armed with the cordial he had prepared, Ethel hunted up her 
brother, and persuaded him, after scolding her a little, to swallow it, 
and take a turn in the garden ; after which he made a more successful 
attempt at visiting his father. 

There was another room whither both Norman and Etheldred 
wished to go, though they dared not hint at their desire. At last, 
Ilichard came to them, as they were wandering in the garden, and, 
with his usual stillness of manner, shaded with additional seriousness, 
said, ‘ Would you like to come into the study? ’ 

Etheldred put one hand into his, Norman took the other, and soon 
they stood in that calm presence. Fair, cold, white, and intensely 
still — that face brought home to them the full certainty that the warm 
brightening look would never beam on them, the soft blue eyes never 
guide, check, and watch them, the smile never approve or welcome 
them. To see her unconscious of their presence was too strange and 
sad, and all were silent, till, as they left the room, Ethel looked out 
at Blanche and Aubrey in the garden. ‘ They will never remember 
her ! Oh ! why should it be ? ’ 

Ilichard would fain have moralized and comforted, but she felt as 
if she knew it all before, and heard with languid attention. She had 
rather read than talk, and he sat down to write letters. 

There were no near relations to be sent for. Dr. May was an 
only son, and his wife’s sister, Mrs. Arnott, was in New Zealand ; her 
brother had long been dead, and his widow, who lived in Edinburgh, 
was scarcely known to the May family. Of friends there were many, 
fast bound by affection and gratitude, and notes, inquiries, condolen- 
ces, and offers of service came in thickly, and gave much occupation 
to Flora, Ilichard, and Alan Ernescliffe, in turn. No one from with- 
out could do anything for them — they had all the help they wanted 
in Miss Winter and in Alan, who was invaluable in sharing with 
Ilichard the care of the Doctor, as well as in giving him the benefit 
of his few additional years’ experience, and relieving him of some of 
bis tasks. He was indeed like one of themselves, and a most valu* 


THE DAISV CHAIN. 


4:1 


able help and comforter. Mr. Wilmot gave them all the time he 
could, and on this day saw the Doctor, who’seemed to find some so- 
lace in his visit, though saying very little. 

On this day the baby was to be baptized. The usual Stoneborougli 
fashion was to collect all the Christenings for the month into one 
Sunday, except those for such persons as thought themselves too 
refined to see their children Christened before the congregation, and 
who preferred an empty Church and a week-day. The little one had 
waited till she was nearly six weeks old for ‘ a Christening Sunday,’ 
and since that had been missed, she could not be kept unbaptized for 
another month ; so, late in the day, she was carried to Church. 

Richard had extremely gratified old nurse, by asking her to re- 
present poor Margaret, Mrs. Hoxton stood for the other godmother, 
and Alan Ernescliffe was desired to consider himself absolutely her 
sponsor, not merely a proxy. The younger children alone were to 
go with them : it was too far off, and the way lay too much through 
the town for it to be thought proper for the others to go. Ethel 
wished it very much, and thought it nonsense to care whether people 
looked at her ; and in spite of Miss Winter’s seeming shocked at her 
proposing it, had a great mind to persist. She would even have 
appealed to her papa, if Flora had not stopped her, exclaiming, 
‘Really, Ethel, I think there never was a \person so entirely without 
consideration as you are.’ 

Much abashed, Ethel humbly promised that if she might go into 
papa’s room, she would not say one word about the Christening, un- 
less he should begin, and, to her great satisfaction, he presently 
asked her to read the service to him. Flora came to the door-way 
of Margaret's room, and listened ; when she had finished, all were 
silent. 

‘ How shall we, how can we virtuously bring up our motherless 
little* sister ? ’ was the thought with each of the girls. The answers 
were, in one mind, ‘ I trust we shall do well by her, dear little thing. 
I see, on an emergency, that I know how to act. I never thought I 
was capable of being of so much use, thanks to dear, dear mamma Vs 
training. I shall manage, I am sure, and so they will all depend on 
me, and look up to me. How nice it was to hear dear papa say what 
he did about the comfort of my being able to look after Margaret. 4 

In the other, ‘ Poor darling, it is saddest of all for her, becauso 
she knows nothing, and will never remember her mamma ! Rut if 
Margaret is but better, she will take care of her, and oh ! how we 
ought to try — and I, such a naughty wild thing — if I should hurt 
the dear little ones by carelessness, or by my bad example ! Oh ! 
what shall I do, for want of some one to keep me in order ? If I 
should vex papa by any of my wrong ways ! ’ 

They heard the return of the others, and the sisters both sprang 
up, ‘ May we bring her to you ? ’ said Flora. 

‘ Yes, do, my dears.' 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


£2 

The sisters all eame down together with the little one, and Flora 
put her down within th6 arm her father stretched out for her. Ho 
gazed into the baby face, which, in its expressionless placidity, almost 
recalled her mother’s tranquil sweetness. 

‘ Gertrude Margaret,’ said Flora, and with a look that had more 
of tenderness than grief, he murmured, 1 My Daisy blossom,, my little 
Maggie.’ 

‘ Might we ? ’ said Ethel, when Flora took her again, ‘ might wo 
take her to her godmother to see if she would notice her ? ’ 

He looked as if he wished it ; but said, * No, I think not, better 
not rouse her,’ and sighed heavily ; then, as they stood round his bed, 
unwilling to go, he added, ‘ Girls, we must learn carefulness and 
thoughtfulness. We have no one to take thought for us now.’ 

Flora pressed the babe in her arms, Ethel’s two reluctant tears 
stood on her cheeks, Mary exclaimed, ‘.I’ll try not to be naughty; ’ 
and Blanche climbed up to kiss him, saying, ‘ I will be always good, 
papa.’ 

‘ Daisy — papa’s Daisy — your vows are made,’ whispered Ethel, 
gaining sole possession of the babe for a minute. ‘ You have prom- 
ised to be good and holy. We have the keeping of you, mamma’s 
precious flower, her pearl of truth ! Oh, may God guard you to be 
an unstained jewel, till you come back to her again — and a blooming 
flower, till you are gathered into the wreath that never fades — my 
own sweet poor little motherless Daisy ! ’ 


CHAPTER Y. 


‘Through lawless camp, through ocean wild, 

Iler.prophet eye pursues her child; 

Scans mournfully her poet’s strain, 

.Fears for her merchant, loss alike and gain.’ 

Lyka. Innooentium. 

Dji. May took the management of himself into his own hands, and 
paid so little attention to Mr. Ward’s recommendations, that his 
sons and daughters were in continual dread of his choosing to do 
something that might cause injurious agitation. 

However, he did not attempt to go farther than Margaret’s bed 
side, where lie sat hour after hour, his eyes fixed upon her, as she 
continued in a state bordering on insensibility. He took little notice 
of anything else, and hardly spoke. There were heavy sighs now 
and then, but Richard and Flora, one or other of whom was always 
watching him, could hardly tell whether to ascribe them to the op- 
pression of sorrow, or of suffering. Their great fear was of his in- 
sisting on seeing his wife’s face, and it was a great relief that ho 
never alluded to her, except once, to desire Richard to bring him her 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


43 


ring. Richard silently obeyed, and without a word, he placed it on 
his little finger. Richard used to read the Psalms to him in the 
morning before he was up, and Flora would bring little Daisy and 
lay her by his side. 

To the last moment, they dreaded his choosing to attend the 
funeral, and Flora had decided on remaining at home, though trem- 
bling at the thought of what there might be to go through. They 
tried to let him hear nothing about it, but he seemed to know every 
thing ; and when Flora came into Margaret’s room, without her 
bonnet, he raised his head, and said, { I thought you were all going.’ 

I The others are — but may I not stay with you and her, papa ? 

I I had rather be alone, my dear. I will take care of her. I 
should wish you all to be there.’ 

They decided that his wishes ought to be followed, and that the 
patients must be entrusted to old nurse. Richard told Flora, who 
looked very pale, that she would be glad of it afterwards, and she 
had his arm to lean upon. 

The grave was in the cloister attached to the Minster, a smooth 
green square of turf, marked here and there with small flat lozenges 
of stone, bearing the date and initials of those who lay there, and 
many of them recording former generations of Mays, to whom their 
descent from the head-master had given a right of burial there. 
Dr. Hoxton, Mr. Wilmot, and the surgeon, were tne only friends 
whom Richard had asked to be with them, but the Minster was 
nearly full, for there was a very strong attachment and respect for 
Dr. and Mrs. May throughout the neighbourhood, and every one’s 
feelings were strongly excited. 

1 In the midst of life, we are in death — ’ There was a universal 
sound, as of a sort of sob, that Etheldred never disconnected from 
those words. Yet hardly one tear was shed by the young things 
who stood as close as they could round the grave. Harry and Mary 
did indeed lock their hands together tightly, and the shoulders of 
the former shook as he stood, bowing down his head, but the others 
were still and quiet, in part from awe and bewilderment, but partly, 
too, from a sense that it was against her whole nature that there 
should be clamorous mourning for her. The calm still day seemed 
to tell them the same, the sun beaming softly on the grey arches 
and fresh grass, the sky clear and blue, and the trees that shewed 
over the walls bright with autumn colouring, all suitable to the 
serenity of a life unclouded to its last moment. Some of them felt 
as if it were better to be there, than in their saddened desolate 
home. . 

But home they must go, and, before going up stairs, as Flora 
and Etheldred stood a moment or two with Norman, Ethel said in a 
tone of resolution, and of some cheerfulness, ‘ Well, we have to bo* 
gin afresh.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


44 


4 Yes,’ said Flora, 4 it is a great responsibility. I do trust we 
may be enabled to do as we ought.’ 

4 And now Margaret is getting better, she will be our stay,’ said 
Ethel. 

4 1 must go to her,’ and Flora went up stairs. 

4 1 wish I could be as useful as Flora,’ said Ethel, ‘ but I mean 
to try, and if I can but keep out of mischief, it will be something.’ 

4 There is an object for all one does, in trying to be a comfort to 
papa.’ 

4 That’s no use,’ said Norman, listlessly. 4 We never can.’ 

4 0 but, Norman, he won’t be always as he is now — I am sure 
he cares for us enough to be pleased, if we do right and get on.’ 

4 We used to be so happy ! ’ said Norman. 

Ethel hesitated a little, and presently answered, 4 1 don’t think 
it can be right to lament for our own sakes so much, is it ? ’ 

4 I don’t want to do so,’ said Norman, in the same dejected way. 

4 1 suppose we ought not to feel it either.’ Norman only shook 
his head. 4 We ought to think of her gain. You can’t? Well, I 
am glad, for no more can I. I can’t think of her liking for papa and 
baby and all of us to be left to ourselves. But that’s not right of 
me, and of course it all comes right where she is ; so I always put 
that out of my head, and think what is to come next in doing, and 
pleasing papa, and learning.’ 

4 That’s grown horrid,’ said Norman. 4 There’s no pleasure in 
getting on, nor in anything.’ 

4 Don’t you care for papa and all of us being glad, Norman ? ’ 

As Norman could not just then say that he did, he would not 
answer. 

4 1 wish — ’ said Ethel, disappointed, but cheering up the next 
minute. 4 1 do believe it is having nothing to do. You will be bet- 
ter when you get back to school on Monday,’ 

4 That is worst of all ! ’ 

4 You don’t like going among the boys again ? But that must bo 
done some time or other. Or shall I get liichard to speak to Dr. 
Hoxton to let you have another week’s leave ? ’ 

4 No, no, don’t be foolish. It can’t be helped.’ 

4 1 am very sorry, but I think you will be better for it.’ 

She almost began to fancy herself unfeeling, when she found him 
so much more depressed than she was herself, and unable to feel it 
a relief to know that the time of rest, and want of occupation was 
over. She thought it light-minded, though she could not help it, to 
look forward to the daily studies where she might lose her sad 
thoughts, and be as if everything were as usual. But suppose she 
should be to blame, where would now be the gentle discipline ? Poor 
Ethel’s feelings were not such as to deserve the imputation of levity, 
when this thought came over her ; but her buoyant mind, always 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 45 

seeking for consolation, recurred to Margaret’s improvement, and slie 
fixed her hopes on her. 

Margaret was more alive to surrounding objects, and, when 
roused, she knew them all, answered clearly when addressed, had 
even, more than once, spoken of her own accord, and shewn solici- 
tude at the sight of her father’s bandaged, helpless arm, but he soon 
soothed this away. He was more than ever watchful over her, and 
could scarcely be persuaded to leave her for one moment, in his anx- 
iety to be at hand to answer, when first she should speak of her mother, 
a moment apprehended by all the rest, almost as much for his sake 
as for hers. 

So clear had her perceptions been, and so much more awake did 
she appear, on this evening, that he expected the enquiry to come 
every moment, and lingered in her room ; till she asked the hour, 
and begged him to go to bed. 

As he bent over her, she looked up in his. face, and said, softly, 
'Dear papa.’ 

There was that in her tone which showed she perceived the truth, 
and he knelt by her side kissing her, but not daring to relax his re- 
straint of feeling. 

‘ Dear papa,’ she said again, 1 1 hope I shall soon be better, and 
be some comfort to you.’ 

* My best — my own-^my comfort,’ he murmured, all he could 
say without giving way. 

1 Baby — is she well ? ’ 

I Yes, thank Heaven, she has not suffered at all.’ 

I I heard her this morning, I must see her to-morrow. But don’t 
stay, dear, dear papa, it is late, and X am sure you are not at all well. 
Your arm — is it very much hurt ? ’ 

* It is nothing you need think about, my dear. I am much bet- 
ter than I could have imagined possible.’ 

1 And you have been nursing me all the time ! Papa, you must 
let me take care of you now. Do pray go to bed at once, and get 
up late. Nurse will take good care of me. Good night, dear papa.’ 

When Dr. May had left her, and tried to tell Bichard how it had 
been, the tears cut him short, and had their free course ; but there 
was much of thankfulness, for it might be looked on as the restora- 
tion of his daughter ; the worst was over, and the next day he was 
able to think of other things, had more attention to spare for the 
rest, and when tiie surgeon came, took some professional interest in 
the condition of his own arm, inquired after his patients, and even 
talked of visiting them. 

In the meantime, Margaret sent for her eldest brother, begging 
him to tell her the whole, and it was heard as calmly and firmly as 
it was told. Her bodily state lulled her mind ; and besides it was 
not new; she had observed much while her faculties were still too 
much benumbed for her to understand all, or to express her feelings. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


H5 

Tier thoughts seemed chiefly occupied with her father. She made 
Richard explain to her the injury he had suffered, and begged to know 
whether his constant attendance on her, could do him harm. She was 
much rejoiced when her brother assured her that nothing could be 
better for him, and she began to say with a smile, that very likely 
her being hurt had been fortunate. She asked who had taken care 
of him before Richard’s arrival, and was pleased to hear that it was 
Mr. Ernescliffe. A visit from the little Gertrude Margaret was hap- 
pily accomplished, and, on the whole, the day was most satisfactory, 
she herself declaring that she could not see that there was anything 
the matter with her, except that she felt lazy, and did not seem ablo 
to move. 

Thus the next Sunday morning dawned with more cheerfulness. 
Dr. May came down stairs for the first time, in order to go to Church 
with his whole flock, except the two Margarets. He looked very 
wan and shattered, but they clustered gladly around him, when he 
once more stood among them, little Blanche securing his hand, and 
nodding triumphantly to Mr. Ernescliffe, as much as to say, ‘ Now 
I have him, I don’t want you.’ 

Norman alone was missing ; but he was in his place at Church 
among the boys. Again in returning, he slipped out of the party and 
was at home the first, and when this recurred in the afternoon, Ethel 
began *to understand his motive. The High-street led past the spot 
where the accident had taken place, though neither she nor any of 
the others knew exactly where it was, except Norman, on whose mind 
the scene was branded indelibly ; she guessed that it was to avoid it 
that he went along what was called Randall’s Alley, his usual short 
cut to school. 

That Sunday brought back to the children that there was no one 
to hear their hymns ; but Richard was a great comfort, watching 
over the little ones more like a sister than a brother. Ethel was 
ashamed of herself when she saw him taking thought for them, tying 
Blanche’s bonnet, putting Aubrey’s gloves on, teaching them to put 
away their Sunday toys, as if he meant them to be as neat and pre- 
cise as himself. 

Dr. May did not encounter the family dinner, nor attempt a 
second going to Church; but Blanche was very glorious, as she led 
him down to drink tea, and, before going up again, he had a con- 
versation with Alan Ernescliffe, who felt himself obliged to leave 
Stoneborough early on the morrow. 

‘ I can endure better to go now,’ said he, 1 and I shall hear of 
you often ; Hector will let me know, and Richard has promised to 
write.’ 

1 Aye, you must let us often have a line. I should guess you 
were a letter writing man.’ 

‘ I have hitherto had too few friends who cared to hear of me to 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


47 


write much, but the pleasure of knowing that any interest is taken 
in me here — ’ 

‘ Well,’ said the Doctor, ‘ mind that a letter will always be wel- 
come, and when you are coming southwards, here are your old 
quarters. We cannot lose sight of you any way, especially — ’ and 
his voice quivered, ‘ after the help you gave my poor boys and girls 
in their distress.’ 

1 It would be the utmost satisfaction to think I had been of the 
smallest use,’ said Alan, hiding much under these common-place 
words. 

1 More than I know,’ said Dr. May ; ‘ too much to speak of — 
Well, we shall see you again, though it is a changed place, and you 
must come and see your god-daughter — poor child — may she only 
be brought up as her sisters were ! They will do their best, poor 
things, and so must I, but it is sad work ! ’ 

Both were too much overcome for words, but the Doctor was 
the first to continue, as he took off his dimmed spectacles. He 
seemed to wish to excuse himself for giving way ; saying, with a 
look that would fain have been a smile, ‘ The world has run so light 
and easy with me hitherto, that you see I don’t know how to bear 
with trouble. All thinking and managing fell to my Maggie’s 
share, and I had as little care on my hands as one of my own boys 
— poor fellows. I don’t know how it is to turn out, but of all the 
men on earth to be left with eleven children, I should choose myself 
as the worst.’ 

Alan tried to say somewhat of ‘ Confidence — affection — daugh- 
ters,’ and broke down, but it did as well as if it had been connected. 

‘Yes, yes,’ said the Doctor, ‘they are good children, everyone 
of them. There’s much to be thankful for, if one could only pluck 
up heart to feel it.’ 

‘ And you are convinced that Marga — that Miss May is recov- 
ering.’ 

‘ She has made a great advance to-day. The head is right, at 
least,’ but the Doctor looked anxious, and spoke low, as he said, 
‘ I am not satisfied about her yet. That want of power over the 
limbs is more than the mere shock and debility, as it seems to me, 
though Ward thinks otherwise, and I trust he is right; but I can- 
not tell yet as to the spine. If this should not soon mend, I shall 
have Fleet to see her. He was a fellow-student of mine, very clever, 
and I have more faith in him than in anyone else in' that line ! ’ 

‘ By all means — Yes — ’ said Alan, excessively shocked. ‘ But 
you will let me know how she goes on — Richard will be so kind.’ 

‘ Wo will not fail,’ said Dr. May, more and more touched at the 
sight of the young sailor struggling in vain to restrain his emotion : 
‘you shall hear. I’ll write myself, as soon as l ean use my hand, 
but I hope she may be all right long before that is likely to be.’ 

‘ Your kindness—’ Alan attempted to say, but began again 


48 


TIIE DAISY CnAIN. 


Feeling as I must — ’ then interrupting himself. * 1 fceg your 
pardon, ’tis no fit time,' nor fit — But you’ll let me hear.’ 

1 That I will,’ said Dr. May, and as Alan hastily left the room, 
he continued, half aloud, to himself, 1 Poor hoy ! poor fellow ! I see. 
No wonder ! Heaven grant I have not been the breaking of their 
two young hearts, as well as my own ! Maggie looked doubtful — 
as much as she ever did when my mind was set on a thing, when 1 
spoke of bringing him here. But after all, she liked him as much 
as the rest of us did — she could not wish it otherwise — he is one 
of a thousand, and worthy of our Margaret. That he is ! and 
Maggie thinks so. If he gets on in his profession, why then wo 
shall see — ’ but the sigh of anguish of mind, here showed that the 
wound had but been forgotten for one moment. 

£ Pshaw ! What am I running on to ? I’m all astray for want 
of her ! My poor girl — ’ 

Mr. Ernescliffe set out before sunrise. The boys were up to 
wish him good-bye, and so were Etheldred and Mary, and some one 
else, for while the shaking of hands was going on in the hall, there 
was a call** Mr. Ernthcliffe,’ and over the balusters peeped a little 
rough curly head, a face glowing with carnation deepened by sleep, 
and a round, plump, bare arm and shoulder ; and down at Alan’s 
feet there fell a construction of white and pink paper, while a voice 
lisped out, ‘ Mr. Ernthcliffe, there’s a white rothe for you.’ 

An indignant * Miss Blanche ! ’ was heard behind, and there was 
no certainty that any thanks reached the poor little heroine, who 
was evidently borne off summarily to the nursery, while Ethel gave 
way to a paroxysm of suppressed laughter, joined in, more or less, 
by all the rest ; and thus Alan, promising faithfully to preserve the 
precious token, left Dr. May’s door, not in so much outward sorrow 
as he had expected. 

Even their father laughed at the romance of the white * rothe,’ 
and declared Blanche was a dangerous young lady ; but the story 
was less successful with Miss Winter, who gravely said it was no 
wonder, since Blanche’s elder sister had been setting her the ex- 
ample of forwardness in coming down in this way after Mr. Ernes- 
cliffe. Ethel was very angry, and was only prevented from vindi- 
cating herself, by remembering there was no peace-maker now, and 
that she had resolved only to think of Miss Winter’s late kindness, 
and bear with her tiresome ways. 

Etheldred thought herself too sorrowful to be liable to her usual 
faults, which would seem so much worse now ; but she found herself 
more irritable than usual, and doubly heedless, because her mind 
was pre-occupied. She hated herself, and suffered more from 
sorrow than even at the first moment, for now she felt what it was 
co have no one to tame her, no eye over her; she found herself 
going a tort et a ir avers all the morning, and with no one to set 
her right. Since it was so the first day, what would follow ? 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


49 


Mary was on the contrary so far subdued, as to be exemplary 
in goodness and diligence, and Blanche was always steady. Flora 
was too busy to think of the school-room, for the whole house was 
on her hands, beside the charge of Margaret, while Dr. May went 
to the hospital, and to sundry patients, and they thought he seemed 
the better for the occupation, as well as gratified and affected by 
the sympathy he everywhere met with, from high and low. 

The boys were at school, unseen except when at the dinner 
play-hour, Norman ran home to ask after his father and sister, but 
the most trying time was at eight in the evening, when they came 
home. That was wont to be the merriest part of the whole day, 
the whole family collected, papa at leisure and ready for talk or 
for play, mamma smiling over her work-basket, the sisters full of 
chatter, the brothers full of fun, all the tidings of the day discussed, 
and nothing unwelcome but bed-time. How different now ! The 
Doctor was with Margaret, and though Bichard tried to say some- 
thing cheerful, as his brothers entered, there was no response, and 
they sat down on the opposite sides of the fire, forlorn and silent, 
till Bichard who was painting some letters on card-board to supply 
the gaps in Aubrey’s ivory Alphabet, called Harry to help him ; 
but Ethel, as she sat at work, could only look at Norman, and wish 
she could devise anything likely to gratify him. 

After a time Flora came down, and laying some sheets of closely 
written note paper before her sister, said, ‘ Here is dear mamma’s 
unfinished letter to aunt Flora. Papa says we elder ones are to 
read it. It is a description of us all, and very much indeed we 
ought to learn from it. I shall keep a copy of it.’ 

Flora took up her work, and began to consult with Bichard, 
while Ethel moved to Norman’s side, and kneeling so as to lean 
against his shoulder, as he sat on a low cushion, they read their 
mother’s last letter, by the fire-light, with indescribable feelings, as 
they went through the subjects that had lately occupied them, re- 
lated by her who would never be among them again. After much 
of this kind, for her letters to Mrs. Arnott were almost journals, 
came, 

1 You say it is long since yon had a portrait gallery of the chicken daisies, and 
if I do not write in these leisure days, you will hardly get it after I am in the 
midst of business again. The new Daisy is like Margaret at the same age— may 
she continue like her ! Pretty creature, she can hardly be more charming than 
at present. Aubrey, the moon-faced, is far from reconciled to his deposition from 
babyhood ; he is a sober, solemn gentleman, backward in talking, and with such 
a will of his own, as will want much watching ; very different from Blanche, 
who is Flora over again, perhaps prettier, and more fairy-like, unless this is only 
one’s admiration for the buds of the present season. None of them has ever been 
so winning as this little maid, who even attracts Dr. Hoxton himself, and obtains 
sugar-plums and kisses. “ Rather she than I,” says Harry, but. notice is notice 
to- the white Mayflower, and there is my anxiety — I am afraid it is not whole- 
some to be too engaging ever to get a rebuff. I hope having a yoimger sister, 
and outgrowing baby charms may be salutary. Flora soon left off thinking about 


50 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


her beauty, and the fit of vanity does less harm at five than fifteen. My pool 
Tom has not such a happy life as Blanche, he is often in trouble at lessons, and 
bullied by Harry at play, in spite of his champion, Mary ; and yet I cannot 
interfere, for it is' good for him to have all this preparatory teazing, before he 
goes into school. He has good abilities, but not much perseverance or energy, 
and I must take the teaching of him into my own hands till his school days begin, 
in hopes of instilling them. The girlishness and timidity will be knocked out of 
him by the boys, I suppose ; Harry is too kind and generous to do more than teaze 
him moderately, and Norman will see that it does not go too far. It is a common 
saying that Tom and Mary made a mistake, that he is the girl, and she the boy, 
for she is a rough, merry creature, the noisiest in the house, always skirmishing 
with Harry in defence of Tom, and yet devoted to him, and warning to do every- 
thing he does. Those two, Harry and Mary, are exactly alike, except for Harry’s 
curly mane of lion -coloured wig. The “yellow haired laddie” is papa’s name 
for Harry, which he does not mind from him, though furious if the girls attempt 
to call him so. Harry is the thorough boy of the family, all spirit, recklessness, 
and mischief, but so true, and kind, and noble-hearted, that one loves him the 
better after every freely confessed scrape. I cannot tell you how grateful I am 
to my boy for his perfect confidence, the thing that chiefly lessens my anxiety for 
him in his half-school, half-home life, which does not seem to me to work quite 
well with him. There are two sons of Mrs. Anderson’s at the school, who are 
more his friends than I like, and he is too easily led by the desire not to be out- 
done, and to show that he fears- nothing. Lately, our sailor-guest has inspired 
him with a vehement wish to go to sea ; I wish it was not necessary that the 
decision should be made so early in life, for this fault is just what would make us 
most fear to send him into the world very young, though in some ways it might 
not do amiss for him. 

‘ So much for the younger bairns, whom you never beheld, dear Flora. The 
three whom you left, when people used to waste pity on me for their being all 
babies together, now look as if any pair of them were twins, for Norman is the 
tallest, almost outgrowing his strength, and Ethel’s sharp face, so like her papa’s, 
makes her look older than Flora. Norman and Ethel do indeed take after their 
papa, more than any of the others, and are much alike. There is the same bril- 
liant cleverness, the same strong feeling, not easy of demonstration, though impet- 
uous in action ; but poor Ethel’s old foibles, her harum-scarum nature, quick 
temper, uncouth manners, and heedlessness of all but one absorbing object, have 
kept her back, and caused her much discomfort ; yet I sometimes think these 
manifest defects have occasioned a discipline that is the best thing for the char- 
acter in the end. They are faults that show themselves, and which one can tell 
how to deal with, and I have full confidence that she has the principle within her 
that will conquer them.’ 

£ If — ’ mournfully siglied Ethel; but her brother pointed on 
further. 

‘ My great hope is her entire indifference to praise — not approval, but praise. 
If she has not come up to her own standard, she works on, not always with good 
temper, but perseveringly, and entirely unheeding of commendation till she has 
satisfied herself, only thinking it stupid not to see the faults. It is this inde- 
pendence of praise that I want to see in her brother and sister. They justly earn 
it, and are rightly pleased with it ; but I cannot feel sure whether they do not 
depend on it too much. Norman lives, like all school-boys, a life of emulation, 
and has never met with anything but success. I do believe Dr. Hoxton and 
Mr. Wilmot are as proud of him as we are ; and he has never shown any ten- 
dency to conceit, but I am afraid he has the love of being foremost, and pride in 
his superiority, caring for what he is, compared with others, rather than what h« 
is himself.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


51 


1 I know,’ said Norman ; ‘ I have done so, hut that’s orer. I see 
what it is worth. I’d give all the quam optimes I ever got in my 
life to be the help Richard is to papa.’ 

‘ You would if you were his age.’ 

1 Not I, I’m not the sort. I’m not like her. But are we to go 
on about the elders ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! yes, don’t let us miss a word. There can’t be anything 
but praise of them.’ 

‘ Your sweet goddaughter. I almost feel as if I had spoken in disparagement 
of her, but I meant no such thing, dear girl. It would he hard to find a fault in 
her, since the childish love of admiration was subdued. She is so solid and 
steady, as to be very valuable with the younger ones, and is fast growing so 
lovely, that I wish you could behold her. I do not see any vanity, but there 
lies my dread, not of beauty-vanity, but that she will find temptation in the 
being everywhere liked and sought after. As to Margaret, my precious com- 
panion and friend, you have heard enough of her to know her, and, as to telling 
you what she is like, I could as soon set about describing her papa. When I 
thought of not being spared to them this time, it was happiness indeed to think 
of her at their head, fit to be his companion, with so much of his own talent as 
to be more up to conversation with him, than he could ever have found his stupid 
old Maggie. It was rather a trial of her discretion to have Mr. Emescliffe here 
while I was up-stairs, and very well she seems to have come out of it. Poor 
Richard’s last disappointment is still our chief trouble. He has been working 
hard with a tutor all through the vacation, and has not even come home to see 
his new sister, on his way to Oxford. He had made a resolution that he would 
not come to us, till he had passed, and his father thought it best that it should 
be kept. I hope he will succeed next time, but his nervousness renders it still 
more doubtful. With him it is the very reverse of Norman. He suffers too 
much for want of commendation, and I cannot wonder at it, when I see how 
much each failure vexes his father, and Richard little knows how precious is our 
perfect confidence in him, how much more valuable than any honours he could 
earn. You would be amused to see how little he is altered from the pretty 
little fair fellow, that you used to say, was so like my old portrait, even the wavy 
rings of light glossy hair sit on his forehead, just as you liked to twist them ; 
and his small trim figure is a fine contrast to Norman’s long legs and arms, 
which — ’ 

There the letter broke off, the playful affection of the last 
words making it almost more painful to think that the fond hand 
would never hnish the sentence. 

»+» 

CHAPTER YI. 

‘A drooping daisy changed into a cap, 

In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. 

WORDSWORTH. 

‘ So there you are up for the day — really you look very comfort- 
able,’ said Ethel, coming into the room where Margaret lay on her 
bed, half raised by pillows, supported by a wooden frame. 

‘ Yes, is not it a charming contrivance of Richard’s? It quite 
gives me the use of my hands,’ said Margaret. 


52 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ I think he is doing something else for you,’ said Ethol ; ‘ ] 
heard him carpentering at six o’clock this morning, but I suppose 
it is to be a secret.’ 

‘ And don’t you admire her night-cap ? ’ said Flora. 

‘Is it anything different?’ said Ethel, peering closer. ‘ 0, 1 
tee — so she has a fine day-night-cap. Is that your taste, Flora ? ’ 

‘ Partly,’ said Margaret, ‘ and partly my own. I put in all theso 
little white puffs, and I hope you think they do me credit. Wasn’t 
it grand of me ? ’ 

‘ She only despises you for them,’ said Flora. 

‘ I’m very glad you could,’ said Ethel gravely ; ‘ but do you 
know ? it is rather like that horrid old lady in some book, who had 
a paralytic stroke, and the first thing she did that showed she had 
come to her senses was to write, “ llose-coloured curtains for the 
Doctors.” ’ 

‘ Well, it was for the Doctor,’ said Margaret, ‘ and it had its 
effect. He told me I looked much better when he found me trying 
it on.’ 

‘ And did you really have the looking-glass and try it on ? ’ cried 
Ethel. 

‘ Yes, really,’ said Flora. ‘ Don’t you think one may as well be 
fit to be seen if one is ill ? It is no use to depress one’s friends 
by being more forlorn and disconsolate than one can help.’ 

‘ No — not disconsolate,’ said Ethel; ‘but the white puffiness — 
and the hemming — and the glass ! ’ 

‘ Poor Ethel can’t get over it,’ said Margaret. ‘ But, Ethel, 
do you think there is nothing disconsolate in untidiness ? ’ 

‘ You could be tidy without the little puffs ! Your first bit of 
work too ! Don’t think I’m tiresome. If they were an amusement 
to you, I am sure I am very glad of them, but I can’t see the sense 
of them.’ 

‘ Poor little things ! ’ said Margaret laughing. ‘ It is only my 
foible for making a thing look nice. And, Ethel,’ she added, draw- 
ing her down close over her, ‘ I did not think the trouble wasted, 
if seeing me look fresher cheered up dear papa a moment.’ 

‘ I spoke to papa about nurse’s proposal,’ said Margaret present- 
ly to Flora, ‘ and he quite agrees to it. Indeed it is impossible 
that Anne should attend properly to all the children while nurse is 
so much engaged with me.’ 

‘I think so,’ said Flora; ‘and it does not answer to bring Au- 
brey into the school-room. It only makes Mary and Blanche idle, 
and Miss Winter does not like it.’ 

‘ Then the question is, who shall it be ? Nurse has no one in view, 
and only protests against “ one of the girls out of the school here.’” 

‘ That’s a great pity,’ said Flora. ‘ Don’t you think we could 
make her take to J ane White, she is so very nice.’ 

‘ I thought of her, but it will never answer if wo displease nurso 


TI1E DAISY CHAIN. 


\ TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 53 

Besides, 1 . </fcr at the time Anne came, dear mamma thought 
there was danger of a girl’s having too many acquaintances, espe- 
cially taking the children out walking. We cannot always be suro 
of sending her out with Anne.’ 

1 Do you remember ’ — said Ethel, there stopping. 

‘Well,’ said both sisters. 


‘ Don’t you recollect, Flora, that, girl whose father was in the 
hospital — that girl at Cocksmoor ? ’ 

‘ I do,’ said Flora. £ She was a very nice girl ; I wonder whe 
ther nurse would approve of her.’ 

1 How old ? ’ said Margaret. 

£ Fourteen, and tall. Such a clean cottage! ’ 

The girls went on, and Margaret began to like the idea very much, 
and consider whether the girl could be brought for inspection, before 
nurse was prejudiced by hearing of her Cocksmoor extraction. At 
that moment Bichard knocked at the door, and entered with Tom, 
helping him to bring a small short-legged table, such as could stand 
on the bed at the right height for Margaret’s meals or employments. 

There were great exclamations of satisfaction, and gratitude ; 
£ it was the very thing wanted, only how could he have contrived it ? ’ 

‘ Don’t you recognise it ? ’ said he. 

£ 0, 1 see ; it is the old drawing-desk that no one used. And you 
have put legs to it — how famous ! Y ou are the best contriver, Diehard !’ 

‘ Then see, you can raise it up for reading or writing; here’s a 
corner for your ink to stand flat ; and there it is down for your dinner.’ 

‘ Charming, you have made it go so easily, when it used to be 
so stiff. There — give me my work-basket, please, Ethel ; I mean 
to make some more white puffs.’ 

£ What’s the matter now, Ethel ? ’ said Flora ; £ you look as if 
you did not approve of the table.’ 

£ I was only thinking it was as if she was settling herself to lie 
in bed for a very long time,’ said Ethel. 

£ I hope not,’ said Bichard ; £ but I don’t see why she should 
not be as comfortable as she can, while she is there.’ 

£ I am sure I hope you will never be ill, Ethel,’ said Flora. 
£ You would be horrid to nurse ! ’ 

£ She will know how to be grateful when she is,’ said Margaret. 

£ I say, Bichard,’ exclaimed Ethel, £ this is hospital-meeting day 
so you won’t be wanted to drive papa.’ 

£ No, I am at your service ; do you want a walk ? ’ 

So it was determined that Bichard and Ethel should walk to- 
gether to Cocksmoor. 

No two people could be much more unlike than Bichard and 
Etheldred May ; but they were very fond of each other. Bichard 
was sometimes seriously annoyed by Ethel’s heedlessness, and did not 
always understand her sublimities, but he had a great deal of admira- 
tion for one who partook so much of his father’s nature; and Ethc] 


54 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN - . 



had a clue respect for her eldest brother, gratitude ^ ong affeo 
tion for many kindnesses, a reverence for his sterling goodness, and 
his exemption from her own besetting failings, only a little damped 
by her compassionate wonder at his deficiency in talent, and by her 
vexation at not being always comprehended. 

They went by the road, for the plantation gate was far too serious 
an undertaking for any one not in the highest spirits for enterprise. 
On the way there was a good deal of that desultory talk, very socia- 
ble and interesting, that is apt to prevail between two people, who 
would never have chosen each other for companions, if they were 
not of the same family, but who are nevertheless very affectionate 
and companionable. Ethel was anxious to hear what her brother 
thought of papa’s spirits, and whether he ialked in their drives. 

4 Sometimes,’ said Richard. 4 It is just as it happens. Now 
and then he goes on just like himself, and then at other times he 
will not speak for three or four miles.’ 

4 And he sighs ? 5 said Ethel. 4 Those sighs are so very sad, and 
long, and deep ! They seem to have whole volumes in them, as if 
there was such a weight on him.’ 

4 Some people say he is not as much altered as they expected,’ 
said Richard. 

4 Oh ! do they ? Well ! I can’t fancy any one feeling it more. 
He can’t leave off his old self, of course, but’ — Ethel stopped short. 

4 Margaret is a great comfort to him,’ said Richard. 

4 That she is. She thinks of him all day long, and I don’t think 
either of them is ever so happy as in the evening, when he sits with 
her. They talk about mamma then’ — 

It was just what Richard could not do, and he made some obser- 
vation to change the subject, but Ethel returned to it, so far as to 
beg to know how the arm was going on, for she did not like to say 
any thing about it to papa. 

4 It will be a long business, I am afraid,’ said Richard. ‘In- 
deed, he said the otho r day, he thought he should never have the 
free use of the elbow.’ 

4 And do you think it is very painful ? I saw the other day, 
when Aubrey was sitting on his knee and fidgetting, he shrank 
whenever he even came towards it, and yet it seemed as if he could 
not bear to put him down.’ 

4 Y es, it is excessively tender, and sometimes gets very bad at night. ’ 

4 Ah,’ said Ethel, 4 there’s a line — here — round his eyes, that 
there never used to be, and when it deepens, I am sure he is in 
pain, or has been kept awake.’ 

4 You are very odd, Ethel ; how do you see things in people’s 
faces, when you miss so much at just the same distance ? ’ 

4 1 look after what I care about,’ said Ethel. 4 One sees more 
with one’s mind than one’s eyes. The best sight is inside.’ 

4 But do you always see the truth ? ’ said Richard gravely. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 55 

‘ Quite enough. What is less common than the ordinary world ? ’ 
said Ethel. 

Richard shook his head, not quite satisfied, hut not sure enougl 
that he entered into her meaning to question it. 

‘ I wonder you don’t wear spectacles,’ was the result of his medi- 
tation, and it made her laugh by being so inapposite to her own 
reflections; but the laugh ended in a melancholy look. ‘Dear 
mamma did not like me to use them,’ she said in a low voice. 

Thus they talked till they arrived at Cocksmoor, where poor 
Mrs. Taylor, inspirited by better reports of her husband and the 
hopes for her daughter, was like another woman. Richard was very 
careful not to raise false expectations, saying it all depended on Miss 
May and nurse, and what they thought of her strength and steadi- 
ness, but these cautions did not seem capable of damping the hopes 
of the smooth-haired Lucy, who stood smiling and curtseying. The 
twins were grown and improved, and Ethel supposed they would be 
brought to Church on the next Christening Sunday, but their moth- 
er looked helpless and hopeless about getting them so far, and how 
was she to get gossips ? Ethel began to grow very indignant, but 
she was always shy of finding fault with poor people to their faces 
when she would not have done so to persons in her own station, and 
so she was silent, while Richard hoped they would be able to man- 
age, and said it would be better not to wait another month for still 
worse weather and shorter days. 

As they were coming out of the house, a big, rough-looking, 
uncivilized boy came up before them, and called out, ‘ I say — ben’t 
you the young Doctor up at Stoneborough ? ’ 

‘ I am Dr. May’s son,’ said Richard ; while Ethel, startled, clung 
to his arm, in dread of some rudeness. 

‘ Granny’s bad,’ said the boy ; proceeding without further expla- 
nation to lead the way to another hovel, though Richard tried to 
explain that the knowledge of medicine was not in his case heredi- 
tary, A poor old woman sat groaning over the fire, and two chil- 
dren crouched, half-clothed on the bare floor. 

Richard’s gentle voice and kind manner drew forth some won- 
derful descriptions — ‘ her head was all of a goggle, her legs all of a 
fur, she felt as if some one was cutting right through her.’ 

‘ Well,’ said Richard kindly, ‘ I am no Doctor myself, but I’ll 
ask my father about you, and perhaps he can give you an order for 
the hospital.’ 

1 No, no, thank ye, Sir; I can’t go to the hospital, I can’t leave 
these poor children ; they’ve no father nor mother, Sir, and no one 
to do for them but me.’ 

< What do you all live on, then ? ’ said Richard, looking round 
the desolate hut. 

‘ On Sam’s wages, Sir; that’s that boy. He is a good boy to 
oie, Sir, and his little sisters ; he brings it, all he gets, home to me 


56 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


rig’lar, but ’tis but six shillings a week, and they makes him take half 
of it out in goods and beer, which is a bad thing for a boy like him, Sir. 

“ How old are you, Sam ? ’ 

Sam scratched his head, and answered nothing. His grand 
mother knew he was the age of her black bonnet, and as he looked 
about fifteen, Ethel honoured him and the bonnet accordingly, while 
Itichard said he must be very glad to be able to maintain them all, 
at his age, and, promising to try to bring his father that way, since 
prescribing at second hand for such curious symptoms was more than 
could be expected, he took his leave. 

‘ A wretched place,’ said Richard, looking round. 1 1 don’t know 
what help there is for the people. There’s no one to do any thing 
for them, and it’s of no use to tell them to come to Church when it 
is so far off. and there is so little room for them.’ 

I It is miserable,’ said Ethel ; and all her thoughts during her 
last walk thither began to rush over her again, not effaced, but rather 
burnt in, by all that had subsequently happened. She had said it 
should be her aim and effort to make Cocksmoor a Christian place. 
Such a resolve must not pass away lightly ; she knew it must be 
acted on, but how ? What would her present means — one sovereign 
— effect ? Her fancies, rich and rare, had nearly been forgotten 
of late, but she might make them of use in time — in time, and here 
were hives of children growing up in heathenism. Suddenly an 
idea struck her — Richard, when at home, was a very diligent teach- 
er in the Sunday-school at Stoneborough, though it was a thankless 
task, and he was the only gentleman so engaged, except the two 
Clergymen — the other male teachers being a formal, grave, little 
baker, and one or two monitors. 

‘ Richard,’ said Ethel, ‘ I’ll tell you what. Suppose we were to 
set up a Sunday-school at Cocksmoor. We could get a room, and 
walk there every Sunday afternoon, and go to Church in the even- 
ing instead.’ 

He was so confounded by the suddenness of the project, that he 
did not answer, till she had time for several exclamations and 1 Well, 
Richard ! ’ 

I I cannot tell,’ he said. ‘ Going to Church in the evening would 
interfere with tea-time — put out all the house — make the evening 
uncomfortable.’ 

‘ The evenings are horrid now, especially Sundays,’ said Ethel. 

1 Rut missing two more would make them worse for the others. 

i Papa is always with Margaret,’ said Ethel. ‘ We are of no use to 
him. Besides those poor children — are not they of more importance ? ’ 

: And, then, what is to become of Stoneborough school ? ’ 

c I hate it,’ exclaimed Ethel ; then seeing Richard shocked, and 
finding she had spoken more vehemently than she intended — ‘ It 
is not as bad for you among the boys, but while that committee goes 
on, it is not the least use to try to teach the girls right. Oh ! the 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


57 


fusses about the books, and one’s way of teaching l And fancy how 
Mrs. Ledwich used us. You know I went again last Sunday, for the 
first time, and there I found that class of Margaret’s, that she had 
just managed to get into some degree of nice order, taken so much 
paius with, taught so well. She had been telling me what to hear 
them — there it is given away to Fanny Anderson, who is no more fit 
to teach than that stick, and all Margaret’s work will be undone. No 
notice to us — not even the civility to wait and see when she gets better. ' 

‘ If we left them now for Cocksmoor, would it not look as if we 
were affronted ? ’ 

Ethel was slightly taken aback, but only said, ‘ Papa would be 
very angry if he knew it.’ 

‘ I am glad you did not tell him,’ said Richard. 

‘ I thought it would only tease him,’ said Ethel, ‘ and that he might 
call it a petty female squabble ; and when Margaret is well, it will 
come right if Fanny Anderson has not spoilt the girls in the 
meantime.. It is all Mrs. Ledwich’s doing. How I did hate it 
when every one came up and shook hands with me, and asked after 
Margaret and papa, only just out of curiosity ! ’ 

‘ Hush, hush, Ethel, what’s the use of thinking such things ? ’ 

A silence, — then she exclaimed , 1 But, indeed, Richard, you don’t 
fancy that I want to teach at Cocksmoor, because it is disagrceablo 
at Stoneborough ? ’ 

I No, indeed.’ 

The rendering of full justice conveyed in his tone, so opened 
Ethel’s heart, that she went on eagerly : — 4 The history of it is this. 
Last time we walked here, that day, I said, and I meant it, that I 
would never put it out of my head ; I would go on doing and striving, 
and trying, till this place was properly cared for, and has a Church 
and a Clergyman. I believe it was a vow, Richard, I do believe it 
was, — and if one makes one, one must keep it. There it is. So, I 
can’t give money, I have but one pound in the world, but I have time, 
and I would make that useful, if you would help me.’ 

I I don’t see how ’ was the answer, and there was a fragment of a 
smile on Richard’s face, as if it struck him as a wild scheme, that 
Ethel should undertake, single-handed, to evangelize Cocksmoor. 

It was such a damper as to be most mortifying to an enthusiastic 
girl, and she drew into herself in a moment. 

They walked home in silence, and when Richard warned her that 
she was not keeping her dress out of the dirt, it sounded like a 
sarcasm on her projects, and, with a slightly pettish manner, she raised 
the unfortunate skirt, its crape trimmings greatly bespattered with 
ruddy mud. Then recollecting how mamma would have shaken her 
head at that very thing, she regretted the temper she had betrayed, 
and in a ‘ larmoyante ’ voice, sighed, 1 1 wish I could pick my way 
better. Some people have the gift, you have hardly a splash, and 
£’m up to the ancles in mud.’ 


58 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


4 It is only taking care,’ said Richard ; 4 besides your frock is so 
long, and full. Can’t you tuck it up, and pin it ? ’ 

4 My pins always come out,’ said Ethel, disconsolately, crumpling 
the black folds into one hand, while she hunted for a pin with the 
other. 

4 No wonder, if you stick them in that way,’ said Richard. 4 Oh ! 
you’ll tear that crape. Here, let me help you. Don’t you see, make 
it go in and out, that way; give it something to pull against.’ 

Ethel laughed. 4 That’s the third thing you have taught me — to 
thread a needle, tie a bow, and stick in a pin ! I never could learn 
those things of anyone else ; they show, but don’t explain the theory,’ 
They met Dr. May at the entrance of the town, very tired, and 
saying he had been a long tramp, all over the place, and Mrs. Iloxton 
had been boring him with her fancies. As he took Richard’s arm he 
gave the long heavy sigh that always fell so painfully on Ethel’s ear. 

4 Dear, dear, dear papa ! ’ thought she , 4 my work must also be to do 
all I can to comfort him.’ 

Her reflections were broken off. Dr. May exclaimed, 4 Ethel, 
don’t make such a figure of yourself. Those muddy ancles and 
petticoats are not fit to be seen — there, now you are sweeping the 
pavement. Haye you no medium? One would think you had 
never worn a gown in your life before ! ’ 

Poor Ethel stepped on before with mud-encrusted heels, and 
her father speaking sharply in the weariness and soreness of his 
heart ; her draggle-tailed petticoats weighing down at once her mis- 
sionary projects at Cocksmoor, and her tender visions of comforting 
her widowed father ; her heart was full to overflowing, and where 
was the mother to hear her troubles ? 

She opened the hall door, and would have rushed up-stairs, but 
nurse happened to be crossing the hall. 4 Miss Ethel ! Miss Ethel, 
you arn’t going up with them boots on ! I do declare you. are just 
like one of the boys. And your frock ! ’ 

Ethel sat submissively down on the lowest step, and pulled off 
her boots. As she did so, her father and brother came in — the former 
desiring Richard to come with him to the study, and write a note 
for him. She hoped that thus she might have Margaret to herself, 
and hurried into her room. Margaret was alone, maids and children 
at tea, and Flora dressing. The room was in twilight, with the red 
gleam of the fire playing cheerfully over it. 

4 Well, Ethel, have you had a pleasant walk ? ’ 

4 Yes — no — Oh Margaret!’ and throwing herself across the 
bottom of the bed, she burst into tears. 

4 Ethel, dear, what is the matter ? Papa — ’ 

4 No — no — only I draggled my frock, and Richard threw cold 
water. And I am good for nothing ! Oh ! if mamma was but here ! ’ 
4 Darling Ethel, dear Ethel, I wish I could comfort you. Come a 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


59 


little nearer to me, I can’t reach you. Dear Ethel, what has gone 
wrong ? ’ 

‘ Every thing,’ said Ethel. 1 No — I’m too dirty to come on your 
white bed ; I forgot, you won’t like it,’ added she, in an injured tone. 

‘ You are wet, you are cold, you are tired,’ said Margaret. 1 Stay 
here and dress, don’t go up in the cold. There, sit by the fire, pull 
off your frock and stockings, and we will send for the others. Let me 
see you look comfortable — there. Now tell me who threw cold water. 

1 It was figurative cold water,’ said Ethel, smiling for a moment. 

‘ I was only silly enough to tell Biehard my plan, and it’s horrid to 
talk to a person who only thinks one high-flying and nonsensical — 
and then came the dirt.’ 

‘ But what was the scheme, Ethel ? ’ 

‘ Cocksmoor,’ said Ethel, proceeding to unfold it. 

‘ I wish we could,’ said Margaret. ‘ It would be an excellent 
thing. But how did Bicliard vex you ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ said Ethel, ‘ only he thought it would not do. 
Perhaps he said right, but it -was coldly, and he smiled.’ 

‘ He is too sober-minded for our flights,’ said Margaret. ‘ I know 
the feeling of it, Ethel dear ; but you know if he did see that some 
of your plans might not answer, it is no reason you should not try 
to do something at once. You have not told me about the girl.’ 

Ethel proceeded to tell the history. c There ! ’ said Margaret, 
cheerfully, 1 there are two ways of helping Cocksmoor already. 
Could you not make some clothes for the two grand-children ? I 
could help you a little, and then, if they were well clothed, you might 
get them to come to the Sunday-school. And as to the twins, I won- 
der what the hire of a cart would be to bring the Christening party ? 
It is just what Bichard could manage.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Ethel ; 1 but those are only little isolated individual 
things ! ’ 

‘ But one must make a beginning.’ 

‘ Then. Margaret, you think it was a real vow ? You don’t think 
it silly of me ? ’ said Ethel, wistfully. 

‘ Ethel, dear, I don’t think dear mamma would say we ought tG 
make vows, except what the Church decrees for us. I don’t think 
she would like the notion of your considering yourself pledged ; but 
I do think, that, after all you have said and felt about Cocksmoor, 
and being led there on that day, it does seem as if we might be 
intended to make it our especial charge.’ 

‘ O Margaret, I am glad you say so. You always understand.’ 

1 But you know we are so young, that now we have not her to 
judge for us, we must only do little things that we are quite sure of, 
or we shall get wrong.’ 

1 That’s not the way great things were done.’ 

< I don’t know, Ethel; I think great things can’t be good unless 
they stand on a sure foundation of little ones.’ 


60 


TILE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 Well, I believe Richard was right, and it would not do to begin 
on Sunday, but he was so tame ; and then my frock, and the horrid 
deficiency in those little neatnesses.’ 

1 Perhaps that is good for you in one way ; you might get very 
high-flying if you had not the discipline of those little tiresomo 
things ; correcting them will help you, and keep your high things 
from being all romance. I know dear mamma used to say so ; that 
the trying to conquer them was a help to you. 0, here’s Mary ! 
Mary, will you get Ethel’s dressing things ? She has come home 
wet-footed and cold, and has been warming herself by my fire.’ 

Mary was happy to help, and Ethel was dressed and cheered by 
the time Dr. May came in, for a hurried visit and report of his 
doings ; Flora followed on her way from her room. Then all went 
to tea, leaving Margaret to have a visit from the little ones under 
charge of nurse. Two hours’ stay with her, that precious time when 
she knew that sad as the talk often was, it was truly a comfort to 
him. It ended when ten o’clock struck, and he went down — Mar- 
garet hearing the bell, the sounds of the assembling servants, the 
shutting of* the door, the stillness of prayer time, the opening again, 
the feet moving off in different directions, then brothers and sisters 
coming in to kiss her and bid her good-night, nurse and Flora 
arranging her for the night, Flora coming to sleep in her little bed 
in a corner of the room, and, lastly, her father’s tender good-night, 
and melancholy look at her, and all was quiet, except the low voices 
and movements as Richard attended him in his own room. 

Margaret could think : ‘ Dear, dear Ethel, how noble and high 
she is ! But I am afraid ! It is what people call a difficult, danger- 
ous age, and the grander she is, the greater danger of not managing 
her rightly. If those high purposes should run only into romance 
like mine, or grow out into eccentricities and unfemininesses, what a 
grievous pity it would be ! And I, so little older, so much less 
clever, with just sympathy enough not to be a wise restraint — I am 
the person who has the responsibility, and oh, what shall I do ? 
Mamma trusted to me to be a mother to them, papa looks to me, 
and I so unfit, besides this helplessness. But God sent it, and put 
me in my place. He made me lie here, and will raise me up if it is 
good, so I trust He will help me with my sisters.’ 

‘ Grant me to have a right judgment in all things, and evermore 
to rejoice in Thy holy comfort.’ 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


61 


CHAPTER VII. 

* Something between a hindrance and a help.’ 

WounSWOETIL 

Etiieldred awoke long before time for getting up, and lay pondering 
over her visions. Margaret had sympathized, and therefore they 
did not seem entirely aerial. To earn money by writing was her 
favourite plan, and she called her various romances in turn before her 
memory, to judge which might be brought down to sober pen and 
ink. She considered till it became not too unreasonably early to 
get up. It was dark, but there was a little light close tc the win- 
dow : she had no writing-paper, but she would interline her old ex- 
ercise-book. Down she ran, and crouching in the school-room win- 
dow-seat, she wrote on in a trance of eager composition, till Norman 
called her, as he went to school, to help him to find a book. 

This done, she went up to visit Margaret, to tell her the story, and 
consult her. But this was not so easy. She found Margaret with 
little Daisy lying by her, and Tom sitting by the fire over his Latin. 

4 0 Ethel, good morning, dear ! you are come just in time.’ 

4 To take baby ? ’ said Ethel as the child was fretting a little. 

4 Yes, thank you, she has been very good, but she was tired of 
lying here, and I can’t move her about,’ said Margaret. 

‘ 0 Margaret, I have such apian,’ said Ethel, as she walked about 
with little Gertrude ; but Tom interrupted. 

1 Margaret, will you see if I can say my lesson ? ’ and the thumbed 
Latin grammar came across her just as Dr. May’s do.or opened, and 
he came in exclaiming, 4 Latin grammar ! Margaret, this is really 
too much for you. Good morning, my dears. Ha ! Tommy, take 
your book away, my boy. You must not inflict that on sister now 
There’s y©ur regular master, Bichard, in my room, if it is fit for hih 
ears yet. What, the little one here too ? ’ 

4 How is your arm, papa ? ’ said Margaret. 4 Did it keep you 
awake ? ’ 

4 Not long — it set me dreaming though, and a very romantic 
dream it was, worthy of Ethel herself.’ 

4 What was it, papa ? ’ 

4 0, it was an odd thing, joining on strangely enough with one J 
had three or four-and-twenty years ago, when I was a young man, 
hearing lectures at Edinburgh, and courting’ — he stopped, and felt 
Margaret’s pulse, asked her a few questions, and talked to the baby 
Ethel longed to hear his dream, but thought he would not like to go 
on : however, he did presently. 

4 The old dream was the night after a pic-nic on Arthur’s Seat 
with the Mackenzies ; Mamma and Aunt Flora were there. ’Twas 
a regular boy’s dream, a tournament or something of that nature, 


62 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


where I was victor, the queen — you know who she was — giving mo 
her token — a Daisy Chain.’ 

1 That is why you like to call us your Daisy Chain,’ said Ethel. 

1 Did you write it in verse ? ’ said Margaret. 1 1 think I once 
saw some verses like it in her desk.’ 

1 I was in love, and three-and-twenty,’ said the Doctor, looking 
drolly guilty in the midst of his sadness. 4 Aye, those fixed it in 
my memory, perhaps my fancy made it more distinct than it really 
was. An evening or two ago, I met with them, and that stirred it 
up, I suppose. Last night came the tournament again, hut it was 
the melee, a sense of being crushed down, suffocated by the throng 
of armed knights and horses — pain and wounds — -and I looked in 
vain through the opposing overwhelming host for my — my Maggie. 
Well, I got the worst of it, my sword arm was broken — I fell, was 
stifled — crushed — in misery- — all I could do was to grasp my token 
— my Daisy Chain,’ and he pressed Margaret’s hand as he said so, 
‘ And, behold, the tumult and despair were passed. I lay on the 
grass in the cloisters, and the Daisy Chain hung from the sky, and 
was drawing me upwards. There — it is a queer dream for a sober 
old country Doctor. I don’t know why I told you, don’t tell any 
one again.’ 

And he walked away, muttering, ‘ For he told me his dreams, 
talked of eating and drinking,’ leaving Margaret with her eyes full 
of tears, and Ethel vehemently caressing the baby. 

1 How beautiful ! ’ said Ethel. 

c It has been a comfort to him, I am sure,’ said Margaret. 

1 You don’t think it ominous,’ said Ethel, with a slight tremulous 
voice. 

‘ More soothing than any thing else. It is what we all feel, is 
it not ? that this little daisy bud is the link between us and heaven ? ’ 

4 But about him. He was victor at first — vanquished the next 
time ? ’ 

4 1 think —if it is to have an interpretation, though I am not 
sure we ought to take it so seriously, it would only mean that in 
younger days, people care for victory and distinction in this world, 
like Norman, or as papa most likely did then ; but, as they grow 
older, they care less, and others pass them, and they know it does 
not signify, for in our race all may win.’ 

4 But he has a great name. How many people come from a 
distance to consult him ! he is looked upon, too, in other ways ! he 
can do anything with the corporation.’ 

Margaret smiled. ‘ All this does not sound grand — it is not as 
if he had set up in London.’ 

1 Oh dear, I am so glad he did not.’ 

4 Shall I tell you what mamma told me he said about it, when 
uncle Mackenzie said he ought ? He answered, that he thought 


THE DAISY CHAIN - . 


63 


health and happy home attachments, were a better provision for us 
to set out in life with than thousands.’ 

‘ I am sure he was right ! ’ said Ethel, earnestly. ‘ Then you 
don’t think the dream meant being beaten, only that our best things 
are not gained by successes in this world ? ’ 

‘ Don’t go and let it dwell on your mind as a vision,’ said Mar- 
garet. ‘ I think dear mamma would call that silly.’ 

An interruption occurred, and Ethel had to go down to breakfast 
with a mind floating between romance, sorrow, and high aspirations, 
very unlike the actual world she had to live in. First, there was 
a sick man walking into the study, and her father, laying down his 
letters, saying, ‘ I must despatch him before prayers, I suppose. 
I’ve a great mind to say I never will see any one who wont keep to 
my days.’ 

1 1 can’t imagine why they don’t, 5 said Flora, as he went. ‘ He 
is always saying so, but never acting on it. If he would once turn 
one away, the rest would mind.’ 

Richard went on in silence, cutting bread and butter. 

‘ There’s another ring,’ said Mary. 

‘ Yes, he is caught now, they’ll go on in a stream. I shall not 
keep Margaret waiting for her breakfast, I shall take it up.’ 

The morning was tiresome ; though Dr. May had two regular 
days for seeing poor people at his house, he was too good-natured 
to keep strictly to them, and this day, as Flora had predicted, there 
was a procession of them not soon got rid of, even by his rapid 
queries and the talismanic figures made by his left hand on scraps 
of papfcr, with which he sent them off to the infirmary. Ethel 
tried to read ; the children lingered about ; it was a trial of temper 
to all but Tom, who obtained Richard’s attention to his lessons. 
He liked to say them to his brother, and this was an incentive to 
learn them quickly, that none might remain for Miss Winter when 
Richard went out for his father. If .mamma had been there, she 
would have had prayers ; but now no one had authority enough, 
though they did at last even finish breakfast. Just as the gig came 
to the door, Dr. May dismissed his last patient, rang the bell in 
haste, and as soon as prayers were ever, declared he had an appoint- 
ment, and had no time to eat. There was a general outcry, that 
it was bad enough when he was well, and now he must not take 
liberties ; Flora made him drink some tea ; and Richard placed 
morsels in his way, while he read his letters. He ran up for a final 
look at Margaret, almost upset the staid Miss Winter as he ran 
down again, called Richard to take the reins, and was off. 

It was French day, always a trial to Ethel. M. Ballompre, 
the master, knew what was good and bad French, but could not 
render a reason, and Ethel being versed in the principles of 
grammar, from her Latin studies, chose to know the why and 
wherefore of his corrections — she did not like to sec her pages de- 


64 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


faced, and have no security against future errors ; while lie thought 
her a troublesome pupil, and was put out by her questions. They 
wrangled, Miss Winter was displeased, and Ethel felt injured. 

Mary’s inability to catch the pronunciation, and her hopeless dull 
look when she found that cc&ur must not be pronounced cour , nor 
cur , but something between, to which her rosy English lips could 
never come — all this did not tease M. Ballompre, for he was used to it. 

His mark for Ethel’s lesson was 1 de V humeur .’ 

1 1 am sorry,’ said Miss Winter, when he was gone. ‘ I thought 
you had outgrown that habit of disputing over every phrase.’ 

‘ I can’t tell how a language is to be learnt without knowing the 
reasons of one’s mistakes,’ said Ethel. 

1 That is what you always say, my dear. It is of no use to 
renew it all, but I wish you would control yourself. Now, Mary, 
call Blanche, and you and Ethel take your arithmetic.’ 

So Flora went to read to Margaret, while Blanche went lightly 
and playfully through her easy lessons, and Mary floundered pite- 
ously over the difliculties of Compound Long Division. Ethel’s 
mind was in too irritated and tumultuous a state for her to derive 
her usual solace from Cube Boot. Her sum was wrong, and she 
wanted to work it right, but Miss Winter, who had little liking for 
the higher branches of arithmetic, said she had spent time enough 
over it, and summoned her to an examination such as the governess 
was very fond of and often practised. Ethel thought it useless, and 
was teased by it ; and though her answers were chiefly correct, they 
were giver, in an irritated tone. It was of this kind : — 

What is the date of the invention of paper ? 

What is the latitude and longitude of Otaheite ? 

What are the component parts of brass ? 

Whence is cochineal imported ? 

When this was over, Etlud had to fetch her mending-basket, and 
Mary her book of selections ; ’the piece for to-day’s lesson was the 
quarrel of Brutus and Cassius ; and Mary’s dull droning tone was a 
trial to her ears ; she presently exclaimed, 1 0 Mary, don’t mur- 
der it ! ’ 

1 Murder what ? ’ said Mary, opening wide her light blue eyes. 

1 That use of exaggerated language,’ — began Miss Winter. 

‘ I’ve heard Papa say it,’ said Ethel, only wanting to silence Miss 
Winter. In a cooler moment, she would not have used the argument. 

1 All that a gentleman may say, may not be a precedent for a 
young lady ; but you are interrupting M ary.’ 

‘ Only let me show her. I can’t bear to hear her, listen, Mary. 

‘ “ What shall one of us 

That struck the foremost ” ’ — 

‘ That is declaiming,’ said Miss Winter. ‘ It is not what we 
wish for in a lady. You are neglecting your work and interfering.’ 


T1IE DAISY CHAIN. 


65 


Ethel made a fretful contortion, and obeyed. So it went on all 
the morning, Ethel’s eagerness checked by Miss Winter’s dry man 
ner, producing pettishness, till Ethel, in a state between self-reproach 
and a sense of injustice, went up to prepare for dinner, and to visit 
Margaret on the way. 

She found her sister picking a merino frock to pieces. ‘ See here,’ 
she said eagerly, ‘ I thought you would like to make up this old 
frock for one of the Cocksmoor children ; but what is the matter ? ’ 
as Ethel did not show the lively interest that she expected. 

‘ O nothing, only Miss Winter is so tiresome.’ 

‘ What was it ? ’ 

1 Every thing, it was all horrid. I was cross I know, but she 
and M. Ballompre made me so ; ’ and Ethel was in the midst of the 
narration of her grievances, when Norman came in. The school 
was half a mile off, but he had not once failed to come home, in tho 
interval allowed for play after dinner, to inquire for his sister. 

‘ Well, Norman, you are out of breath, sit down and rest 
What is doing at school ? are you dux of your class? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said the boy, wearily. 

1 What mark for the verses ? ’ said Ethel. 

1 Quam bene. 

1 Not optime ? ’ 

1 No, they were tame ,’ Dr. Hoxton said. 

‘ What is Harry doing ? ’ said Margaret. 

1 He is fourth in his form. I left him at football.’ 

1 Dinner ! ’ said Flora at the door. ‘ What will you have, Mar- 
garet ? ’ 

‘ I’ll fetch it,’ said Norman, who considered it his privilege to 
wait on Margaret at dinner. When he had brought the tray, he 
stood leaning against the bed-post, musing. Suddenly, there was 
a considerable clatter of fire-irons, and his violent start surprised 
Margaret. 

‘ Ethel has been poking the fire,’ she said, as if no more was needed 
to account for their insecurity. Norman put them up again, but a 
ringing sound betrayed that it was not with a firm touch, and when, a 
minute after, he came to take her plate, she saw that he was trying 
with effort to steady his hand. 

1 Norman, dear, are you sure you are well ? ’ 

I Yes, very well,’ said he, as if vexed that she had taken any notice. 

‘ Y ou had better not come racing home. I’m not worth inquiries 

now, I am so much better,’ said she smiling. 

He made no reply, but this was not consenting silence. 

I I don’t like you to lose your foot-ball,’ she pioceeded. 

1 I could not — ’ and he stopped short. 

< It would be much better for you,’ said she, looking up m his face 
with anxious affectionate eyes, but he shunned her glance and walked 
away with her plate. 


66 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Flora had been in such close attendance upon Margaret, that she 
needed some cheerful walks, and though she had some doubts how 
affairs at home would go on without her, she was overruled, and sent 
on a long expedition with Miss Winter and Mary, while Ethel re- 
mained with Margaret. 

The only delay before setting out, was that nurse came in, saying, 
‘ If you please, Miss Margaret, there is a girl come to see about the 
place.’ 

The sisters looked at each other and smiled, while Margaret asked 
whence she came, and who she was. 

1 Her name is Taylor, and she comes from Cocksmoor, but she is a 
nice, tidy, strong-looking girl, and she says she has been used to chil- 
dren.’ 

Nurse had fallen into a trap most comfortably, and seemed bent 
upon taking this girl as a choice of her own. She wished to know if 
Miss Margaret would like to see her. 

1 If you please, nurse, but if you think she will do, that is enough.’ 

1 Yes, Miss, but you should look to them things yourself. If you 
please, I’ll bring her up.’ So nurse departed. 

‘ Charming ! ’ cried Ethel , 1 that’s your capital management, Flora; 
Nurse thinks she has done it all herself.’ 

1 She is your charge though,’ said Flora , 1 coming from your own 
beloved Cocksmoor.’ 

Lucy Taylor came in, looking very nice, and very shy, curtseying 
low, in extreme awe of the pale lady in bed. Margaret was much 
pleased with her, and there was no more to be done but settle that she 
should come on Saturday, and to let nurse take her into the town to 
invest her with the universal blackness of the household, where the 
two Margarets were the only white things. 

This arranged, and the walking party set forth, Ethel sat down by 
her sister’s bed, and began to assist in unpicking the merino, telling 
Margaret how much obliged she was to her for thinking of it, and how 
grieved at having been so ungrateful in the morning. She was very 
happy over her contrivances, cutting out under her sister’s superinten- 
dence. She had forgotten the morning’s annoyance, till Margaret said, 
1 1 have been thinking of what you said about Miss Winter, and really 
I don’t know what is to be done.’ 

‘ 0 Margaret, I did not mean to worry you,’ said Ethel, sorry to 
see her look uneasy. 

* I like you to tell me every thing, dear Ethel ; but I don’t see 
clearly the best course. We must go on with Miss Winter.’ 

‘ Of course,’ said Ethel, shocked at her murmurs having even sug- 
gested the possibility of a change, and having, as well as all the othei?, 
a great respect and affection for her governess. 

‘We could not get on without her, even if I were well,’ continued 
Margaret ; ‘ and dear mamma had such perfect trust in her, and we all 
know and love her so well — it would make us put up with a great deal.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 67 

<It is all my own fault,’ said Ethel, only anxious to make amends 
to Miss Winter. ‘ I wish you would not say any thing about it.’ 

‘ Yes, it does seem wrong even to think of it,’ said Margaret , 1 when 
she has been so very kind. It is a blessing to have any one to whom 
Mary and Blanche may so entirely be trusted. But for you — ’ 

‘ It is my own fault,’ repeated Ethel. 

1 1 don’t think it is quite all your own fault,’ said Margaret, ‘ and 
that is the difficulty. I know dear mamma thought Miss Winter an 
excellent governess for the little ones, but hardly up to you, and she 
saw that you worried and fidgetted each other, so, you know, she 
used to keep the teaching of you a good deal in her own hands.’ 

I did not know that was the reason,’ said Ethel, overpowered by 
the recollection of the happy morning’s work she had often done in 
that very room, when her mother had not been equal to the bustle of 
the whole school-room. That watchful, protecting, guarding, mother’s 
love, a shadow of Providence, had been round them so constantly on 
every side, that they had been hardly conscious of it till it was lost to 
them. 

‘ Was it not like her ? ’ said Margaret, 1 but now, my poor Ethel, I 
don’t think it would be right by you or by Miss Winter, to take you 
out of the school-room. I think it would grieve her.’ 

‘ I would not do that for the world.’ 

* Especially after all her kind nursing of me, and even, with more 
reason, it would not be becoming in us to make changes. Besides, 
King Etheldred,’ said Margaret, smiling, ‘ we all know you are a little 
bit of a sloven, and, as nurse says, some one must be always after you, 
and do you know ? even if I were well, I had rather it was Miss Win- 
ter than me.’ 

1 O no, you would not be formal and precise — you would not make 
me cross.’ 

‘ Perhaps you might make me so,’ said Margaret, ‘ or I should let 
you alone, and leave you a slattern. We should both hate it so ! No, 
don’t make me your mistress, Ethel dear, — let me be your sister and 
play-fellow still, as well as I can.’ 

1 Y ou are, you are. I don’t care half so much when I have got you. 

1 And will you try to bear with her, and remember it is right in 
the main, though it is troublesome ? ’ 

< That I will. I won’t plague you again. I know it is bad for 
you, you look tired.’ 

< Pray don’t leave off telling me,’ said Margaret — ‘ it is just what I 
wish on my own account, and I know it is comfortable to have a good 
grumble.’ 

‘ If it does not hurt you, but I am sure you are not easy now — 
are you ? ’ 

‘ Only my back,’ said Margaret. ‘ I have been sitting up longer 
than usual, and it is tired. Will you call nurse to lay me Hat again ? ’ 

The nursery was deserted — all were out, and Ethel came back in 


68 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


trepidation at the notion of having to do it herself, though she knew it 
was only to put one arm to support her sister, while, with the other, 
she removed the pillows ; but Ethel was conscious of her own awk 
wardness and want of observation, nor had Margaret entire trust in . 
her. Still she was too much fatigued to wait, so Ethel was obliged to 
do her best. She was careful and frightened, and therefore slow and 
unsteady. She trusted that all was right, and Margaret tried to be- 
lieve so, though still rnneasy. 

Ethel began to read to her, and Dr. May came home. She looked up 
smiling, and asked where he had been, but it was vain to try to keep 
him from reading her face. He saw in an instant that something was 
amiss, and drew from her a confession that her back was aching a little. 
He knew she might have said a great deal — she was not in a comfort- 
able position — she must be moved. She shook her head — she had 
rather wait — there was a dread of being again lifted by Ethel, that she 
could not entirely hide. Ethel was distressed, Dr. May was angry, 
and, no wonder, when he saw Margaret suffer, felt his own inability 
to help, missed her who had been wont to take all care from his hands, 
and was vexed to see a tall strong girl of fifteen, with the full use of 
both arms, and plenty of sense, incapable of giving any assistance, and 
only doing harm by trying. 

1 It is of no use , 5 said he. 1 Ethel will give no attention to any thing 
but her books ! I’ve a great mind to put an end to all the Latin and 
Greek ! She cares for nothing else . 5 

Ethel could little brook injustice, and much as she was grieving, 
she exclaimed , 1 Papa, papa, I do care — now don’t I, Margaret ? I did 
my best ! 5 

1 Don’t talk nonsense. Your best, indeed ! If you had taken the 
most moderate care — ’ 

‘ I believe Ethel took rather too much care,’ said Margaret, much 
more harassed by the scolding than by the pain. ‘ It will be all right 
presently. Never mind, dear Papa.’ 

But he was not only grieved for the present, but anxious for the 
future ; and, though he knew it was bad for Margaret to manifest his 
displeasure, he could not restrain it, and continued to blame Ethel with 
enough of injustice to set her on vindication, whereupon he silenced 
her, by telling her she was making it worse by self-justification when 
Margaret ought to be quiet. Margaret tried to talk of other things, 
but was in too much discomfort to exert herself enough to divert his 
attention. 

At last Flora returned, and saw in an instant what was wanted. 
Margaret was settled in the right posture, but the pain would not im- 
mediately depart, and Dr. May soon found out that she had a head- 
ache, of which he knew he was at least as guilty as Etheldred could be. 

Nothing could be done but keep her quiet, and Ethel went away 
to be miserable ; Flora tried to comfort her by saying it was unfor- 
tunate, but no doubt there was a knack, and every one could not man 


THE DAISY CHAIN, 69 

age those things ; Margaret was easier now, and as to Papa’s anger, 
he did not always mean all he said. 

But consolation came at bed-time ; Margaret received her with 
open arms when she went to wish her good-night. ‘ My poor Ethel,’ 
she said, holding her close, ‘ I am sorry I have made such a fuss.’ 

1 Oh, you did not, it was too had of me — I am grieved ; are you 
quite comfortable now ? ’ 

1 Yes, quite, only a little head-ache, which I shall sleep off. It has 
been so nice and quiet. Papa took up George Herbert, and has been 
reading me choice bits. I don’t think I have enjoyed any thing so 
much since I have been ill.’ 

‘ I am glad of that, but I have been unhappy all the evening. I 
wish I knew what to do. I am out of heart about every thing ! ’ 

‘ Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step 
if you will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off.’ 

Ethel smiled and sighed, and Margaret whispered, ‘ Don’t grieve 
about me, but put your clever head to rule your hands, and you 
will do for home and Cocksmoor too. Good-night, dearest.’ 

1 I’ve vexed papa,’ sighed Ethel — and just then he came into 
the room. 

‘ Papa,’ said Margaret, 1 here’s poor Ethel, not half recovered 
from her troubles.’ 

He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been 
harsh to another of his motherless girls. 

I Ah ! we must send her to the infant-school, to learn 11 this is 
my right hand, and this is my left,” ’ said he, in his half-gay, half- 
sad manner. 

I I was very stupid,’ said Ethel. 

£ Poor child ! ’ said her papa, ‘ she is worse off than I am. If 
I have but one hand left, she has two left-hands.’ 

‘ I do mean to try, papa.’ 

1 Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my 
poor girl. I was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. 
I am sorry, my dear, but you must bear with me, for I never learnt 
htr ways with you when I might. We will try to have more pa- 
tience with each other.’ 

What could Ethel do but hang round his neck and cry, till he 
said, but tenderly, that they had given Margaret quite disturbance 
enough to-day, and sent her to bed, vowing to watch each little 
actio r, lest she should again give pain to such a father and sister. 


TO 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


* Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page 
At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage, 

Even in his pastimes he requires a friend 
' To warn and teach him safely to unbend, 

O’er all his pleasures gently to preside, 

Watch his emotions, and control their tide. 1 

Oowper. 

The misfortunes of that day disheartened and disconceited Ethel- 
dred. To do mischief where she most wished to do good, to grieve 
where she longed to comfort, seemed to be her fate ; it was vain to 
attempt any thing for any one’s good, while all her warm feelings and 
high aspirations were thwarted by the awkward ungainly hands, 
and heedless eyes that Nature had given her. Nor did the follow- 
ing day, Saturday, do much for her comfort, by giving her the 
company of her brothers. That it was Norman’s sixteenth birth- 
day seemed only to make it worse. Their father had apparently 
forgotten it, and Norman stopped Blanche, when she was going to 
put him in mind of it ; stopped her by such a look as the child 
never forgot, though there was no anger in it. In reply to Ethel’s 
inquiry what he was going to do that morning, he gave a yawn and 
stretch, and said, dejectedly, that he had got some Euripides to 
look over, and some verses to finish. 

1 1 am sorry ; this is the first time you ever have not managed 
so as to make a real holiday of your Saturday ! ’ 

‘ I could not help it, and there’s nothing to do,’ said Norman, 
wearily. 

1 I promised to go and read to Margaret, while Flora does her 
music,’ said Ethel ; ‘ I shall come after that and do my Latin and 
Greek with you.’ 

Margaret would not keep her long, saying she liked her to bo 
with Norman, but she found him with his head sunk on his open 
book, fast asleep. At dinner-time, Harry and Tom, rushing in, 
awoke him with a violent start. 

‘ Halloo ! Norman, that was a jump ! ’ said Harry, as his bro* 
ther stretched and pinched himself. ‘ You’ll jump out of your skin 
some of these days, if you don’t take care ! ’ 

‘ It’s enough to startle any one to be waked up with such a 
noise,’ said Ethel. 

‘ Then he ought to sleep at proper times,’ said Harry, 1 and not 
be waking me up with tumbling about, and hallooing out, and talk- 
ing in his sleep half the night.’ 

‘ Talking in his sleep ; why, just now, you said he did not sleep, 
said Ethel. 

* Harry knows nothing about it,’ said Norman. 

f Don’t I ? well, I only know, if you slept in school, and were a 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


71 

junior, you would get a proper good licking for going on as you do 
at night.’ 

1 And I think you might chance to get a proper good licking 
for not holding your tongue,’ said Norman, which hint’ reduced 
Harry to silence. 

I)r. May was not come home ; he had gone with Richard far 
into the country, and was to return to tea. He was thought to he 
desirous of avoiding the family dinners that used to be so delight- 
ful. Harry was impatient to depart, and when Mary and Tom ran 
after him, he ordered them back. 

‘ Where can he be going ? ’ said Mary, as she looked wistfully 
after hin» 

‘ I know,’ said Tom. 

‘ Where ? Do tell me.’ 

1 Only don’t tell papa. I went down with him to the play-ground 
this morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons, and Ax- 
worthy, and he, are going to hire a gun, and shoot pee-wits on Cocks- 
moor.’ 

1 But they ought not ; should they ? ’ said Mary. ‘ Papa would 
be very angry.’ 

‘ Anderson said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not 
to tell. Indeed, Anderson would have boxed my ears for hearing, 
when I could not help it.’ 

‘ But Harry would not let him ? 5 

1 Aye. Harry is quite a match for Harvey Anderson, though he 
is so much younger ; and he said he would not have me bullied.’ 

1 That’s a good Harry ! But I wish he would not go out shoot- 
ing ! ’ said Mary. 

‘ Mind, you don’t tell.’ 

‘ And where’s Hector ErnesclifFe ? Would not he go ? ’ 

‘No. I like Hector. He did not choose to go, though Anderson 
teazed him, and said he was a poor Scot, and his brother didn’t al- 
low him tin enough to buy powder and shot. If Harry would have 
stayed at home, he would have come up here, and we might have had 
some fun in the garden.’ 

‘ I wish he would. We never have any fun now,’ said Mary; 

‘ but oh ! there he is; ’ as she spied Hector peeping over the gate which 
led, from the field, into the garden. It was the first time that he had 
been to Dr. May’s since his brother’s departure, and he was rather 
shy, but the joyful welcome of Mary and Tom took off all reluctance, 
and they claimed him for a good game at play in the wood house. 
Mary ran up-stairs to beg to be excused the formal walk, and, luckily 
for her, Miss Winter was in Margaret’s room. Margaret asked if it 
was very wet and dirty, and hearing ‘ not very,’ gave gracious per- 
mission, and off went Mary and Blanche to construct some curious 
specimens of pottery, under the superintendence of Hector and Tom. 
There was a certain ditch where yellow mud was attainable, whereof 


72 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


the happy children concocted marbles and vases, "which underwent a 
preparatory baking in the boys’ pockets, that they might not crack 
in the nursery fire. Margaret only stipulated that her sisters’ should 
be well fenced in brown holland, and when Miss Winter looked grave 
said, ‘ Poor things, a little thorough play will do them a great deal 
of good.’ 

Miss Winter could not see the good of groping in the dirt ; and 
Margaret perceived that it would be one of her difficulties to know 
how to follow out her mother’s views for the children, without vex- 
ing the good governess by not deferring to her. 

In the meantime, Norman had disconsolately returned to his 
Euripides, and Ethel, who wanted to stay with him and lqpk out his 
words, was ordered out by Miss Winter, because she had spent all 
yesterday in-doors. Miss Winter was going to stay with Margaret, 
and Ethel and Elora coaxed Norman to come with them, ‘just one 
mile on the turnpike road and back again ; he would be much fresher 
for his Greek afterwards.’ 

He came, but he did not enliven his sisters. The three plodded 
on, taking a diligent constitutional walk, exchanging very few words, 
and those chiefly between the girls. Elora gathered some hoary 
clematis, and red berries, and sought in the hedge-sides for some 
crimson ‘ fairy baths’ to carry home ; and, at the sight of the amuse- 
ment Margaret derived from the placing the beauteous little Pezizas 
in a saucer of damp green moss, so as to hide the brown sticks on 
which they grew, Ethel took shame to herself for want of perception 
of little attentions. When she told Norman so, he answered, ‘ There’s 
no one who does see what is the right thing. How horrid the room 
looks ! Every thing is no how ! ’ added he, looking round at the 
ornaments and things on the tables, which had lost their air of com- 
fort and good taste. It was not disorder, and Ethel could not see 
what he meant. ‘ What’s wrong ? ’ said she. 

‘ 0 never mind — you can’t do it. Don’t try — you’ll only make 
it worse. It will never be the same as long as we live.’ 

‘ I wish you would not be so unhappy ! ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Never mind,’ again said Norman, but he put his arm round her. 

‘ Have you done your Euripides ? Can I help you ? Will you 
construe it with me, or shall I look out your words ? ’ 

‘ Thank you, I don’t mind that. It is the verses ! I want some 
sense ! ’ said Norman, running his fingers through his hair till it stood 
on end. ‘ ’Tis such a horrid subject, Coral Islands ! As if there was 
anything to be said about them.’ 

‘ Dear me, Norman, I could say ten thousand things, only I must 
not tell you what mine are, as yours are not done.’ 

‘ No, don’t,’ said Norman, decidedly. 

‘ Did you read the description of them in the Quarterly ? I am 
sure you might get some ideas there. Shall I find it for you ? It 
is in an old number.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


73 


‘ W ell, do ; thank you — ’ 

# He rested listlessly on the sofa while his sister rummaged in a 
chiffoniere. At last she found the article, and eagerly read him the 
description of the strange forms of the coral animals, and the beau- 
ties of their flower-like feelers and branching fabrics. It would 
once have delighted him, but his first comment was, 1 Nasty little 
brutes ! ’ However, the next minute he thanked her, took the book, 
and said he could hammer something out of it, though it was too bad 
to give such an unclassical subject. At dusk he left off, saying he 
should get it done at night, his senses would come then, and he 
should be glad to sit up. • 

‘ Only three weeks to the holidays,’ said Ethel, trying to be 
cheerful ; but his assent was depressing, and she began to fear that 
Christmas would only make them more sad. 

Mary did not keep Tom’s secret so inviolably, but that, while 
they were dressing for tea, she revealed to Ethel where Harry wa’s 
gone. He was not yet returned, though his fathe^ and Bichard were 
come in, and the sisters were at once in some anxiety on his account, 
and doubt whether they ought to let papa know of his disobedience. 

Flora and Ethel, who were the first in the drawing-room, had a 
consultation. 

1 1 should have told mamma directly,’ said Flora. 

1 He never did so,’ sighed Ethel, 1 things never went wrong then.’ 

‘ 0 yes, they did ; don’t you remember how naughty Harry was 
about climbing the wall, and making faces at Mrs. Bichardson’s ser- 
vants ? ’ 

1 And how ill I behaved the first day of last Christmas holidays ? ’ 

1 She knew, but I don’t think she told papa.’ 

1 Not that we knew of, but I believe she did tell him everything, 
and I think, Flora, he ought to know everything, especially now. I 
never could bear the way the Mackenzies used to have of thinking 
their parents must be like enemies, and keeping secrets from them.' 

‘ They were always threatening each other, “ I’ll tell mamma,” 
said Flora, ‘ and calling us tell-tales because we told our own dear 
mamma everything. But it is not like that now — I neither like to 
worry papa, nor to bring Harry into disgrace — besides, Tom and 
Mary meant it for a secret.’ 

‘ Papa would not be angry with him if we told him it was a se- 
cret,’ said Ethel; ‘ I wish Harry would come in. There’s the door 
—oh ! it is only you.’ 

1 Whom did you expect ? ’ said Bichard, entering. 

The sisters looked at each other, and Ethel, after an interval, 
explained their doubts about Harry. 

1 He is come in,’ said Bichard ; ‘ I saw him running up to his own 
room, very muddy.’ 

k 0, I’m glad ! But do you think papa ought to hear it ? I don’t 
know what’s to be done. ’Tis the children’s secret,’ said Flora. 

4 


74 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 It will never do to have him going out with those boys contin 
ually,’ said Ethel — ‘ Harvey Anderson close by all the holidays ! ’ 

‘ I’ll try what I can do with him,’ said Richard. 1 Papa had bettei 
not hear it now, at any rate. He is very tired and sad this evening ! 
and his arm is painful again, so we must not worry him with histories 
of naughtiness among the children.’ 

‘ No,’ said Ethel, decidedly, ‘ I am glad you were there, Ritchie ; 
I never should have thought of one time being better than another.’ 

I Just like Ethel ! ’ said Flora, smiling. 

‘ Why should you not learn ? ’ said Richard gently. 

I I can’t,’ said Ethel, in a despondiiig way. 

1 Why not? You are much sharper than most people, and, if 
you tried, you would know those things much better than I do, as 
you know how to learn history.’ 

1 It is quite a different sort of cleverness,’ caid Flora. ‘ Recol- 
lect Sir Isaac Newton, or Archimedes.’ 

1 Then you must have both sorts,’ said Ethel, ‘ for you can do 
things nicely, and yet you learn very fast.’ - 

1 Take care, Ethel, you are singeing your frock ! Well, I really 
don’t think you can help those things ! ’ said Flora. 1 Your short 
sight is the reason of it, and it is of no use to try to mend it.’ 

1 Don’t tell her so,’ said Richard. ‘ It can’t be all short sight — 
it is the not thinking. I do believe that if Ethel would think, no 
one would do things so well. Don’t you remember the beautiful per- 
spective drawing she made of this room, for me to take to Oxford ? 
That was very difficult, and wanted a great deal of neatness and ac- 
curacy, so why should she not be neat and accurate in other things ? 
And I know you can read faces, Ethel — why don’t you look there 
before you speak ? ’ 

I Ah ! before instead of after, when I only see I have said some- 
thing mal-a-proposj said Ethel. 

‘ I must go and see about the children,’ said Flora ; ‘ if the tea 
comes while I am gone, will you make it, Ritchie ? ’ 

‘ Flora despairs qf me,’ said Ethel. 

I I don’t,’ said Richard. ‘ Have you forgotten how to put in a 
pin yet ? ’ 

‘ No ; I hope not.’ 

1 Well, then, see if you can’t learn to make tea ; and, by-the-by, 
Ethel, which is the next Christening Sunday ? ’ 

‘ The one after next, surely. The first of December is Monday 
—yes, to-morrow week is the next.’ 

‘ Then I have thought of something ; it would cost eighteen-pence 
to hire Joliffe’s spring-cart, and we might have Mrs. Taylor and the 
twins brought to Church in it. Should you like to walk to Cocks- 
moor and settle it ? ’ 

‘ O yes, very much indeed. What a capital thought. Margaret 
said you would know how to manage.’ 


THE DAISY CIIAIN. 


Y5 


‘ Then we will go the first fine day papa does not want me.’ 

1 1 wonder if I could finish my purple frocks. But here’s tha 
tea. Now, Bichard, don’t tell me to make it. I shall do some- 
thing wrong, and Flora will never forgive you.’ 

Bichard would not let her off. He stood over her, counted her 
shovelsfull of tea, and watched the water into the teapot — he super- 
intended her warming the cups, and putting a drop into each saucer. 
‘ Ah ! ’ said Ethel, with a concluding sigh, “ it makes one hotter 
than double equations ! ’ 

It was all right, as Flora allowed with a slightly superior smile. 
She thought Bichard would never succeed in making a notable or 
elegant woman of Ethel, and it was best that the two sisters should 
take different lines. Flora knew that, though clever and with moro 
accomplishments, she could not surpass Ethel in intellectual attain- 
ments, but she was certainly far more valuable in the house, and 
had been proved to have just the qualities in which her sister was 
most deficient. She did not relish hearing that Ethel wanted 
nothing but attention to be more than her equal, and she thought 
Bichard mistaken. Flora’s remembrance of their time of distress 
was less unmixedly wretched than it was with the others, for she 
knew she had done wonders. 

The next day Norman told Ethel that he had got on very well 
with the verses, and finished them off late at night. He showed 
them to her before taking them to school on Monday morning, and 
Ethel thought they were the best he had ever written. There was 
too much spirit and poetical beauty, for a mere school-boy task, 
and she begged for the foul copy, to show it to her father. 1 1 have 
not got it,’ said Norman. 1 The foul copy was not like these ; but 
when I was writing them out quite late, it was all, I don’t know 
how. Flora’s music was in my ears, and the room seemed to get 
larger, and like an ocean cave ; and when the candle flickered, ’twas 
like the green glowing light of the sun through the waves.’ 

1 As it says here,’ said Ethel. 

I And the words all came to me of themselves in beautiful flow- 
ing Latin, just right, as if it was anybody but myself doing it, and 
they ran off my pen in red and blue and gold, and all sorts of colours ; 
and fine branching zig-zagging stars, like what the book described, 
only stranger, came dancing and radiating round my pen and the 
candle. I could hardly believe the verses would scan by daylight, 
but I cant’ find a mistake. Ho you try them again.’ 

Ethel scanned. ‘ I see nothing wrong,’ she said, 1 but it seems 
a shame to begin scanning Undine’s verses, they are too pretty. I 
wish I could copy them. It must have been half a dream.’ 

I I believe it was ; they don’t seem like my own.’ ’ 

1 Hid you dream afterwards ? ’ 

He shivered. 1 They had got into my head too much ; my ears 
eang like the roaring of the sea, and I thought my feet were frozen 


76 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


on to an iceberg : then came darkness, and sea-monsters, and drown* 
ing — it was too horrid ! 5 and his face expressed all, and more than 
all, he said. 1 But ’tis a quarter to seven — we must go,’ said he, 
with a long yawn, and rubbing his eyes. 1 You are sure they arc 
right Ethel i Harry, come along.’ 

Ethel thought those verses ought to make a sensation, but all that 
came of them was a Quam optima, and when she asked Norman if 
no special notice had been taken of them, he said, in his languid 
way, ‘No; only Hr. Hoxton said they were better than usual.’ 

Ethel did not even have the satisfaction of hearing that Mr. 
Wilmot, happening to meet Hr. May, said to him, ‘Your boy has 
more of a poet in him than any that has come in my way. He 
really sometimes makes very striking verses.’ 

Bichard watched for an opportunity of speaking to Harry, which 
did not at once occur, as the boy spent very little of his time at 
home, and, as if by tacit consent, he and Norman came in later every 
evening. At last, on Thursday, in the additional two hours’ leisure 
allowed to the boys, when the studious prepared their tasks, and the 
idle had some special diversion, Bichard encountered him running 
up to his own room to fetch a newly-invented instrument for pro- 
jecting stones. 

‘ I’ll walk back to school with you,’ said Bichard. 

‘ I mean to run,’ returned Harry. 

1 Is there so much hurry ? ’ said Bichard. * I am sorry for it, for 
I wanted to speak to you, Harry; I have something to show you.’ 

His manner conveyed that it related to their mother, and the 
sobering effect was instantaneous. ‘ Very well,’ said he, forgetting 
his haste. ‘ I’ll come into your room.’ 

The awe-struck, shy, yet sorrowful look on his rosy face, showed 
preparation enough, and Bichard’s only preface was to say, ‘ It is a 
bit of a letter that she was in course of writing to aunt Flora, a de- 
scription of us all. The letter itself is gone, but here is a copy of 
it. I thought you would like to read what relates to yourself.’ 

Bichard laid before him the sheet of note paper on which this 
portion of the letter was written, and left him alone with it, while 
he set out on the promised walk with Ethel. 

They found the old woman, Granny Hall, looking like another 
creature, smoke-dried and withered indeed, but all briskness and 
animation. 

‘ Well ! be it you, Sir, and the young lady ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; here we are come to see you again,’ said Bichard. 1 1 hope 
you are not disappointed that I have brought my sister this time 
instead of the Boctor.’ 

‘ No, no, Sir ; I’ve done with the Hoctor for this while,’ said the 
old woman, to Ethel’s great amusement. c He have done me a 
power of good, and thank him for it heartily; but the young lady is 
right welcome here — but ’tis a dirty walk for her.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. Tl 

I Never mind that,’ said Ethel, a little shyly, ‘ I came — where arc 
your grandchildren ? 5 

“ 0 somewhere out among the blocks. They gets out with the 
other children; I can’t be always after them.’ 

I I wanted to know if these would fit them,’ said Ethel, begin 
ning to undo her basket. 

1 Well, ’pon my word ! If ever I see ! Here ! ’ stepping out to the 
door, 1 Polly — Jenny! come in, I say, this moment! Come in, ye 
bad girls, or I’ll give you the stick ; I’ll break every bone of you, 
that I will ! ’ all which threats were bawled out in such a good-na- 
tured, triumphant voice, and with such a delighted air, that Richard 
and Ethel could not help laughing. 

After a few moments, Polly and Jenny made their appearance, 
extremely rough and ragged, but compelled by their grandmother 
to duck down, by way of courtesies, and with finger in mouth they 
stood, too shy to show their delight, as the garments were un- 
folded ; Granny talking so fast that Ethel would never have brought 
in the stipulation, that the frocks should be worn to school and 
Church, if Richard, in his mild, but steady way, had not brought 
the old woman to listen to it. She was full of asseverations that 
they should go ; she took them to Church sometimes herself, when 
it was fine weather and they had clothes, and they could say their 
catechiz as well as anybody already ; yes, they should come, that 
they should, and next Sunday. Ethel promised to be there to in- 
troduce them to the chief lady, the president of the Committee, 
Mrs. Ledwich, and, with a profusion of thanks, they took leave. 

They found John Taylor, just come out of the hospital, looking 
weak and ill, as he smoked his pipe over the fire, his wife bustling 
about at a great rate, and one of the infants crying. It seemed to 
be a great relief that they were not come to complain of Lucy, and 
there were many looks of surprise on hearing what their business 
really was. Mrs. Taylor thanked, and appeared not to know 
whether she was glad or sorry; and her husband, pipe in hand, 
gazed at the young gentleman as if he did not comprehend the 
species, since he could not be old enough to be a Clergyman. 

Richard hoped they would find sponsors by that time; and 
there Mrs. Taylor gave little hope ; it was a bad lot— there was no 
one she liked to ask to stand, she said, in a dismal voice; but there 
her husband put in, ‘ I’ll find some one, if that’s all ; my missus 
always thinks nobody can’t do nothing.’ 

‘ To be sure,’ said the lamentable Mrs. Taylor, ‘ all the elder ones 
was took to Church, and I’m loth the little ones shouldn’t ; but you 
see, Sir, we are poor people, and it’s a long way, and they was set 
down in the gentleman’s register book.’ 

“ Rut you know that is not the same, Mrs. Taylor. Surety 
Lucy could have told you that, when she went to school.’ 


78 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


I No, Sir, ’tis not the same — I knows that ; but this is a bad 
place to live in — ’ 

‘ Always the old song, Missus ! ’ exclaimed her husband. u Thank 
you kindly, Sir — you have been a good friend to us, and so was 
Dr. May, when I was up to the hospital, through the thick of his 
own troubles. I believe you are in the right of it, Sir, and thank 
you. The children shall be ready, and little Jack too, and I’ll 
find gossips, and let ’em be Christened on Sunday.’ 

‘ I believe you will be glad of it,’ said Richard ; and he went 
on to speak of the elder children ccaning to school, on Sunday, thus 
causing another whining from the wife about distance and bad 
weather, and no one else going that wsy. He said the little Halls 
were coming, but Mrs. Taylor began saying she disliked their com- 
pany for the children — granny let them get about so much, and 
they said bad words. The father again interfered. Perhaps Mr. 
Wilmot, who acted as chaplain at the hospital, had been talking 
to him, for he declared at once that they should come ; and Richard 
suggested that he might see them home when he came from Church ; 
then, turning to the boy and girl, told them they would meet their 
sister Lucy, and asked them if they would not like that. 

On the whole, the beginning was not inauspicious, though there 
might be a doubt whether old Mrs. Hall would keep all her pro- 
mises. Ethel was so much diverted and pleased as to be convinced 
she would ; Richard was a little doubtful as to her power over the 
wild girls. There could not be any doubt that John Taylor was in 
earnest, and had been worked upon just at the right moment ; but 
there was danger that the impression would not last. 1 And his 
wife is such a horrible whining dawdle ! ’ said Ethel — 1 there will be 
ao good to be done if it depends on her.’ 

Richard made no answer, and Ethel presently felt remorseful for 
her harsh speech about a poor ignorant woman, overwhelmed with 
poverty, children, and weak health. 

I I have been thinning a great deal about what you said last 
time we took this walk,’ said Richard, after a considerable interval. 

‘ 0, have you ! ’ cried Ethel, eagerly; and the black peaty pond 
she was looking at, seemed to sparkle with sunlight. 

‘ Bo you really mean it ? ’ said Richard, deliberately. 

1 Yes, to be sure ; ’ she said, with some indignation. 

1 Because I think I see. a way to make a beginning, but you 
must make up your mind to a great deal of trouble, and dirty walks, 
and you must really learn not to draggle your frock.’ 

1 Well, well ; but tell me.’ 

‘ This is what I was thinking. I don’t think I can go back to Oxford 
after Christmas. It is not fit to leave you while papa is so disabled.’ 

1 0 no, he could not get on at all. I heard him tell Mr. Wil- 
mot the other day that you were his right hand.’ 

Ethel was glad she had repeated this, for there was a deepening 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


79 


colour and smiling glow of pleasure on her brother’s face, such as 
she had seldom seen on his delicate, but somewhat impassive features. 

‘ He is very kind ! ’ he said, warmly. ‘ No, I am sure I cannot 
be spared till he is better able to use his arm, and I don’t see any 
chance of that just yet. Then if I stay at home, Friday is always 
at my own disposal, while papa is at the hospital meeting.’ 

I Yes, yes, and we could go to Cocksmoor and set up a school 
How delightful ! ’ 

‘ I don’t think you would find it quite as delightful as you fan* 
cy,’ said Richard; ‘ the children will be very wild and ignorant, and 
you don’t like that at the National School.’ 

‘ 0 but they are in such need, besides there will be no Mrs. Led- 
wieli over me. It is just right, — I shan’t mind anything. You 
are a capital Ritchie, for having thought of it ! ’ 

I I don’t think — if I am ever to be what I wish, that is, if I can 
get through at Oxford — I don’t think it can be wrong to begin this, 
if Mr. Ramsden does not object.’ 

‘ 0 Mr. Ramsden does not object to anything.’ 

‘And if Mr. Wilmot will come and set us off. You know wo 
cannot begin without that, or without my father’s fully liking it.’ 

‘ Oh ! there can be no doubt of that ! ’ 

‘ This one thing, Ethel, I must stipulate. Don’t you go and tell it all 
out at once to him. I cannot have him worried about our concerns.’ 

‘ But how — no one can question that this is right. I am sure he 
won’t object.’ 

‘ Stop, Ethel, don’t you see, it can’t be done for nothing? If we un- 
dertake it, we must go on with it, and when I am away it will fall on you 
and Flora. W ell, then, it ought to be considered whether you are old 
enough and steady enough ; and if it can be managed for you to go con- 
tinually all this way, in this wild place. There will be expense too.’ 

Ethel looked wild with impatience, but could not gainsay these 
scruples, otherwise than by declaring they ought not to weigh against 
the good of Cocksmoor. 

‘ It will worry him to have to consider all this,’ said Richard, 
‘ and it must not be pressed upon him.’ 

1 No, said Ethel, sorowfully ; ‘ but you don’t mean to give it up.’ 

‘ You are always in extremes, Ethel. All I want is to find a 
good time for proposing it.’ 

She fidgetted and gave a long sigh. 

‘ Mind,’ said Richard, stopping short, ‘ I’ll have nothing to do with 
it except on condition you are patient, and hold your tongue about it.’ 

‘ I think I can, if I may talk to Margaret.’ 

‘ 0 yes, to Margaret of course. We could not settle anything 
without her help.’ 

1 And I know what she will say,’ said Ethel. ‘ 01 am so glad, 
and she jumped over three puddles in succession. 

‘ And, Ethel, you must learn to keep your frock out of the dirt 

‘ Id] do anything, if you’ll help me at Cocksmoor.’ 


80 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


CHAPTER IX. 


1 For tho structure that wo raise. 

Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays, 

Are the blocks with which wo build. 

Truly shape and fashion these, 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 

Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen.’ 

Longfellow. 

When Ethel came home, burning with the tidings of the newly- 
excited hopes for Cocksmoor, they were at once stopped by Marga- 
ret eagerly saying, ‘ Is Richard come in ? pray call him ;’ then on 
his entrance, ‘ 0, Richard, would you be so kind as to take this to tho 
Bank. I don’t like to send it by any one else — it is so much;’ and 
she took from under her pillows a velvet bag, so heavy, that it 
weighed down her slender white hand. 

‘ What, he has given you the care of his money ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘Yes; I saw him turning something out of his waistcoat-pocket 
intor the drawer of the looking-glass, and sighing in that very sad 
way. He said his fees had come to such an accumulation, that he 
must see about sending them to the Bank ; and then he told me of 
the delight of throwing his first fee into dear mamma’s lap, when 
they were just married, and his old uncle had given up to him, and 
how he had brought them to her ever since ; he said she had spoiled 
him, by taking all trouble off his hands. He looked at it, as if it 
was so sorrowful to him to have to dispose of it, that I begged him 
not to plague himself any more, but let me see about it, as dear 
mamma used to do ; so he said I was spoiling him too, but he brought 
me the drawer, and emptied it out here : when he was gone, I packed 
it up, and I have been waiting to ask Richard to take it all to the 
Bank, out of his sight.’ 

‘ You counted it? ’ said Richard. 

‘Yes — there’s fifty — I kept seventeen toward the week’s expenses. 
Just see that it is right,’ said Margaret, showing her neat packets. 

‘ Oh, Ritchie,’ said Ethel, ‘ what can expense signify, when all 
that has been kicking about loose in an open drawer ? What would 
one of those rolls do ? ’ 

‘ I think I had better take them out of your way,’ Said Richard, 
quietly. ‘ Am I to bring back the book to you, Margaret ? ’ 

‘ Yes, do,’ said Margaret ; ‘ pray do not teaze him with it.’ And 
as her brother left the room, she continued, ‘ I wish he was better. 
I think he is more oppressed now than even at first. The pain of 
his arm, going on so long, seems to me to have pulled him down ; 
it does not let him sleep, and, by the end of the day, he gets worn 
and fagged, by seeing so many people, and exerting himself to talk 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


81 


and fcliink ; and often, when there is something that must be asked, 
I don’t know how to begin, for it seems as if a little more would 
be too much for him.’ 

‘ Yes, Richard is right,’ said Ethel, mournfully; ‘it will not do to 
press him about our concerns ; but do you think him worse to-day ? ' 

‘ He did not sleep last night, and he is always worse when he 
does not drive out into the country; the fresh air, and being alone 
with Richard, are a rest for him. To-day is especially trying ; he 
does not think poor old Mr. Southern will get through the evening 
and he is so sorry for the daughter.’ 

‘ Is he there now ? ’ 

‘Yes; he thought of something that might be an alleviation, and 
he would go, though he was tired. I am afraid the poor daughter 
will detain him, and he is not fit to go through such things now.’ 

‘ No, I hope he will soon come ; perhaps Richard will meet him. 
But, 0 Margaret, what do you think Richard and I have been 
talking of ? ’ and, without perception of fit times and seasons, Ethel 
would have told her story, but Margaret, too anxious to attend to 
her, said, ‘ Hark ! was not that* his step ? ’ and Dr. May came in 
looking mournful and fatigued. 

‘ Well,’ said he, ‘ I was just too late. He died as I got there, and 
I could not leave the daughter till old Mrs. Bowers came.’ 

‘ Poor thing,’ said Margaret. ‘He was a good old man.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Dr. May sitting wearily down, and speaking in a 
worn-out voice. ‘ One can’t lightly part with a man one has seen 
at Church every Sunday of one’s life, and exchanged so many 
friendly words with over his counter. ’Tis a strong bond of neigh- 
bourliness in a small place like this, and, as one grows old, changes 
come heavier — ■“ the clouds return again after the rain.” Thank 
you, my dear,’ as Ethel fetched his slippers, and placed a stool for 
his feet, feeling somewhat ashamed of thinking it an achievement 
to have, unbidden, performed a small act of attention which would 
have come naturally from any of the others. 

‘ Papa, you will give me the treat of drinking tea with me ? ’ said 
Margaret, who saw the quiet of her room would suit him better 
than the bustle of the children down stairs. ‘ Thank you,’ as he 
gave a smile of assent. 

That Margaret could not be made to listen this evening was plain, 
and all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. 
In seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffoniero, 
that Flora exclaimed, ‘ Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so ? ’ 

‘ I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I’ll set 
it to rights,’ said Ethel, gulping down her dislike to being reproved 
by Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same. 

‘ My dear ! ’ cried Flora presently, jumping up, ‘ what are you 
doing ? piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones ; 
how do you think they will ever stand ? let me do it.’ 


82 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ No, no, Flora;.’ and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some 
advice, which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between 
temper and despair. 

‘ He is going to teach her to do it on the principles of gravita- 
tion,’ said Flora. 

Richard did not do it himself, but, by his means, Ethel, with- 
out being in the least irritated, gave the chiffoniere a thorough dust- 
ing and setting-to-rights, sorting magazines, burning old catalogues, 
and finding her long-lost 1 Undine,’ at which she was so delighted, 
that she would have forgotten all, in proceeding to read it, curled 
up on the floor amongst the heaps of pamphlets, if another gentle 
hint from Richard had not made her finish her task so well, as to 
make Flora declare it was a pleasure to look in, and Harry pro- 
nounce it to be all neat and ship-shape. 

There was no speaking to Margaret the next morning — it was 
French day — and Ethel had made strong resolutions to behave 
better ; and whether there were fewer idioms, or that she was try- 
ing to understand, instead of carping at the master’s explanations, 
they came to no battle ; Flora led the conversation, and she sus- 
tained her part with credit and gained an excellent mark. 

Flora said afterwards to Margaret, ‘ I managed nicely for her. I 
would not let M. Ballompre blunder upon any of the subjects Ethel 
feels too deeply to talk of in good French, and really Ethel has a 
great talent for languages. How fast she gets on with Italian ! ’ 

£ That she does,’ said Margaret. ‘ Suppose you send her up, 
Flora — you must want to go and draw or practise, and she may do 
her arithmetic here, or read to me.’ 

It was the second time Margaret had made this proposal, and it 
did not please Flora, who had learned to think herself necessary 
to her sister, and liked to be the one to do everything for her. She 
was within six weeks of seventeen, and surely she need not be 
sent down again to the school-room, when she had been so good 
a manager of the whole family. She was fond of study and of 
accomplishments, but she thought she might be emancipated from 
Miss Winter ; and it was not pleasant to her that a sister, only 
eighteen months older, and almost dependent on her, should have 
authority to dispose of her time. 

‘ I practise in the evening,’ she said, 1 and I could draw here if 
I wished, but I have some music to copy.’ 

Margaret was concerned at the dissatisfaction, though not under- 
standing the whole of it ; ‘ You know, dear Flora,’ she said, ‘ I 
need not take up all your time now.’ 

‘ Don’t regret that,’ said Flora. 1 1 like nothing so well as wait- 
ing on you, and I can attend to my own affairs very well here.’ 

1 I’ll tell you why I proposed it,’ said Margaret. ‘ I think it 
would be a relief to Ethel to escape from Miss Winter’s belove-d 
Friday questions.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


83 


; ‘ Great nonsense they are,’ said Flora. ‘ Why don’t you tell 
Miss Winter they are of no use ? ’ 

1 Mamma never interfered with them,’ said Margaret. 4 She 
only kept Ethel in her own hands, and if you would be so kind as 
to change sometimes and sit in the school-room, we could spare 
Ethel, without hurting Miss Winter’s feelings.’ 

I I’ll call Ethel, if you like, but I shall go and practise in the 
drawing-room. The old school-room piano is fit for nothing but 
Mary to hammer upon.’ 

Flora went away, evidently annoyed, and Margaret’s conjectures 
on the cause of it, were cut short, by Ethel running in with a slate 
in one hand, and two books in the other, the rest having all tumbled 
down on the stairs. 

4 0, Margaret, I am so glad to come to you. Miss Winter has 
set Mary to read 44 To be or not to be,” and it would have driven 
me distracted to have staid there. I have got a most beautiful sum 
in Compound Proportion, about a lion, a wolf, and a bear eating up 
a carcase, and as soon as they have done it, you shall hear me say 
my ancient geography, and then we will do a nice bit of Tasso ; 
and if we have any time after that, I have got such a thing to tell 
you — only I must not tell you now, or I shall go on talking and 
not finish my lessons.’ 

It was not till all were done, that Ethel felt free to exclaim, 
4 Now for what I have been longing to tell you — Richard is going 
to — ’ But the fates were unpropitious. Aubrey trotted in expect- 
ing to be amused ; next came Norman, and Ethel gave up„ in de- 
spair ; and, after having affronted Flora in the morning, Margaret 
was afraid of renewing the offence, by attempting to secure Ethel as 
her companion for the afternoon ; so not till after the walk, could 
Margaret contrive to claim the promised communication, telling 
Ethel to come and settle herself cosily by her. 

I I should have been very glad of you last evening,’ said she, 
4 for papa went to sleep, and my book was out of reach.’ 

4 O, I am sorry ; how I pity you, poor Margaret ! ’ 

‘ I suppose I have grown lazy,’ said Margaret, 4 for I don’t mind 
those things now. I am never sorry for a quiet time to recollect 
and consider.’ 

1 It must be like the waiting in the dark between the slides of a 
magic lantern,’ said Ethel ; 4 1 never like to be quiet. I get so 
unhappy.’ 

4 1 am glad of resting and recollecting,’ said Margaret. 4 It has 
all been so like a dream, that merry morning, and then,, slowly 
waking to find myself here in dear mamma’s place, and papa watch* 
ing over me. Sometimes I think I have not half understood what 
it^really is, and that I don’t realize, that if I was up and about, I 
should find the house without her.’ 

4 Yes ; that is the aching part ! ’ said Ethel. 4 1 am happy, sitting 


84 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


on her bed here with you. You are a little of her, besides being 
my own dear Peg-top ! You are very lucky to miss the meal-times 
and the evenings.’ 

‘ That is the reason I don’t feel it wrong to like to have papa 
sitting with me ail the evening,’ said Margaret, ‘ though it may make 
it worse for you to have him away. I don’t think it selfish in me to 
keep him. He wants quiet so much, or to talk a little when it suits 
him ; we are too many now, when he is tired.’ 

‘ 0, it is best,’ said Ethel. ‘ Nothing that you do is selfish — • 
don’t talk of it, dear Margaret. It will be something like old times 
when you come down again.’ 

‘ But all this time you are not telling me what I want so much 
to hear,’ said Margaret, ‘ about Cocksmoor. I am so glad Richard 
has taken it up.’ 

‘That he has. We are to go every Friday, and hire a room, 
and teach the children. Once a week will do a great deal, if we 
can but make them wish to learn. It is a much better plan than 
mine ; for if they care about it, they can come to school here on 
Sunday.’ 

‘ It is excellent,’ said Margaret, ‘ and if he is at home till Easter, 
it will give it a start, and put you in the way of it, and get you 
through the short days and dark evenings, when you could not so 
well walk home without him.’ 

‘ Yes, and then we can all teach; Flora, and Mary, and you, 
when you are well again. Richard says it will be disagreeable, but 
I don’t think so — they are such unsophisticated people. That 
Granny Hall is such a funny old woman ; and the whole place wants 
nothing but a little care, to do very well.’ 

‘ You must prepare for disappointments, dear Ethel.’ 

‘ I know ; I know nothing is done without drawbacks ; but I am 
so glad to make some beginning.’ 

‘ So am I. Do you know mamma and I were one day talking 
over those kind of things, and she said she had always regretted 
that she had so many duties at home, that she could not attend as 
much to the poor as she would like ; but she hoped now we girls 
were growing up, we should be able to do more.’ 

‘ Did she ? ’ was all Ethel said, but she was deeply gratified. 

‘ I’ve been wanting to tell you. I knew you would like to hcai 
it. It seems to set us to work so happily.’ 

‘ I only wish we could begin,’ said Ethel, ‘ but Richard is so 
slow ! Of course we can’t act without papa’s consent and Mr. 
Wilmot’s help, and he says papa must not be worried about it, and 
he must watch for his own time to speak about it.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Margaret. 

‘ I know — I would not have it othorwise ; but what is tiresome 
is this. Richard is very good, but he is so dreadfully hard to stir 
up, and what’s worse, so very much afraid of papa, that while he is 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 8c 

thinking about opportunities, they will all go by, and then it will 
be Easter, and nothing done ! ’ 

‘ He is not so much afraid of papa as he was,’ said Margaret. 
1 He has felt himself useful and a comfort, and papa is gentler ; and 
that has cheered him out of the desponding way that kept him back 
from proposing anything.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ said Ethel; ‘but I wish it was you. Can’t you? 
you always know how to manage.’ 

‘No; it is Richard’s affair, and he must do as he thinks fit. 
Don’t sigh, dear Ethel — perhaps he may soon speak, and, if not, 
you can be preparing in a quiet way all the time. Don’t you re- 
member how dear mamma used to tell us that things, hastily begun, 
never turn out well ? ’ 

‘ But this is not hasty. I’ve been thinking about it these six 
weeks,’ said Ethel. ‘ If one does nothing but think, it is all no 
better than a vision. I want to be doing.’ 

‘ Well, you can be doing — laying a sound foundation,’ said 
Margaret. ‘ The more you consider, and the wiser you make your- 
self, the better it will be when you do set to work.’ 

‘ You mean by curing myself of my slovenly ways, and impatient 
temper ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know that I was exactly thinking of that,’ said Margaret, 
‘ but that ought to be the way. If we are not just the thing in our 
niche at home, I don’t think we can do much real good elsewhere.’ 

‘ It would be hollow, show-goodness,’ said Ethel. ‘ Yes, that is 
true ; and it comes across me now, and then what a horrid wretch I 
am, to be wanting to undertake so much, when I leave so much un- 
done. But, do you know, Margaret, there’s no one such a help in 
those ways as Richard. Though he is so precise, he is never tire- 
some. He makes me see things, and do them neatly, without 
plaguing me, and putting me in a rage. I’m not ready to bite off 
my own fingers, or kick all the rattle-traps over and leave them, as 
I am, when Miss Winter scolds me, or nurse, or even Flora some- 
times ; but it is as if I was gratifying him, and his funny little old 
bachelor tidyisms divert me ; besides, he teaches me the theory, and 
never lays hold of my poor fingers, and, when they won’t bend the 
wrong way, calls them frogs.’ 

‘ He is a capital master for you,’ said Margaret, much amused 
and pleased, for Richard was her especial darling, and she triumphed 
in any eulogy from those who ordinarily were too apt to regard his 
dullnes with superior compassion. 

‘ If he would only read our books, and enter into poetry and 
delight in it ; but it is all nonsense to him,’ said Ethel. ‘ I can’t 
think how people can be so different; but oh! here he comes. 
Ritchie, you should not come upon us before we are aware.’ 

‘ What ? I should have heard no good of myself ? ’ 


86 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Great good,’ said Margaret — ‘ she was telling me you would 
make a neat-handed woman of her in time.’ 

‘ I don’t see why she should not be as neat as other people,’ said 
.Richard, gravely. ‘Has she been telling you of our plan ? ’ 

And it was again happily discussed ; Ethel, satisfied by finding 
him fully set upon the design, and Margaret giving cordial sym- 
pathy and counsel. When Ethel was called away, Margaret said, 
‘I am so glad you have taken it up, not only for the sake of Cocks- 
moor, but of Ethel. It is good for her not to spend her high soul 
in dreams.’ 

‘ I am afraid she does not know what she undertakes,’ said 
Richard. 

‘ She does not; but you will keep her from beirg turned back. 
It is just the thing to prevent her energies from running to waste ; 
and her being so much with you, and working under you, is exactly 
what one would have chosen.’ 

‘ By contraries ! ’ said Richard, smiling. ‘ That is what I was 
afraid of. I don’t half understand or follow her, and when I think 
a thing nonsense, I see you all calling it very fine, and I don’t 
know wk$t to make of it — ’ 

‘ You are making yourself out more dull than you are,’ said 
Margaret, affectionately. 

‘ I know I am stupid, and seem tame and cold,’ said Richard, 
c and you are the only one that dpes not care about it. That is 
what makes me wish Norman was the eldest. If I were as clever 
as he, I could do so much with Ethel, and be so much more to papa.’ 

‘ No, you would not. You would have other things in your 
head. You would not be the dear, dear old Ritchie that you are. 
You would not be a calm, cautious, steady balance to the quicksilver 
heads some of us have got. No, no, Norman’s a very fine fellow, a 
very dear fellow, but he would not do half so well for our eldest — 
he is too easily up, and down again.’ 

‘ And I am getting into my old way of repining,’ said Richard. 

‘ I don’t mind so much, since my father has at least one son to be 
proud of, and I can be of some use to him now.’ 

‘ Of the greatest, and to all of us. I am so glad you can stay 
after Christmas, and papa was pleased at your offering, and said he 
could not spare you at all, though he would have tried, if it had 
been any real advantage to you.’ 

‘Well, I hope he will approve. I must speak to him as soon as 
I can find him with his mind tolerably disengaged.’ 

The scene that ensued that evening in the Magic Lantern before 
Margaret’s bed, did not promise much for the freedom of her father’s 
mind. Harry entered with a resolute manner. ‘ Margaret, I wanted 
to speak to you,’ said he, spreading himself out, with an elbow on 
each arm of the chair. ‘ I want you to speak to papa about my 


THE DAISY CHAIN- 87 

going to sea. It is liigli time to see about it — I shall be thirteen on 
the fourth of May.’ 

4 And you mean it seriously, Harry ? 5 

4 Yes, of course I do, really and truly; and if it is to come to 
pass, it is time to take measures. Don’t you see, Margaret ? ’ 

4 It is time, as you say,’ answered Margaret, reflectingly, and 
sadly surveying the bright boy, rosy cheeked, round faced, and 
blue eyed, with the childish gladsomeness of countenance, that made 
it strange that his lot in life should be already in the balance. 

4 1 know what you will all tell me, that it is a hard life, but I 
must get my own living some way or other, and I should like that 
way the best,’ said he, earnestly. 

4 Should you like to be always far from home ? ’ 

4 1 should come home sometimes, and bring such presents to 
Mary, and baby, and all of you ; and I dont know what else to be, 
Margaret. I should hate to be a Doctor — I can’t abide sick people ; 
and I couldn’t write sermons, so I can’t be a Clergyman ; and 1 
won’t be a lawyer, I vow, for Harvy Anderson is to be a lawyer — so 
there’s nothing left but soldiers and sailors, and I mean to be a 
sailor ! ’ 

44 Well, Harry, you may do your duty, and try to do right, if you 
are a sailor, and that is the point.’ 

4 Aye, I was sure you would not set your face against it, now 
you know Alan Ernescliffe.’ 

4 If you were to be like him — ’ Margaret found herself blushing, 
and broke off. 

4 Then you will ask papa about it ? ’ 

4 You had better do so yourself. Boys had better settle such 
serious affairs with their fathers, without setting their sisters to in- 
terfere. What’s the matter, Harry — you are not afraid to speak to 
papa ? ’ 

4 Only for one thing,’ said Harry. 4 Margaret, I went out to 
shoot pee-wits last Saturday with two fellows, and I can’t speak to 
papa while that’s on my mind.’ 

4 Then you had better tell him at once.’ 

4 1 knew you would say so ; but it would be - like a girl, and it 
would be telling of the two fellows.’ 

4 Not at all ; papa would not care about them.’ 

4 You see,’ said Harry, twisting a little, 4 1 knew I ought not ; 
but they said I was afraid of a gun, and that I had no money. 
Now I see that was chaff, but I didn’t then, and Norman wasn’t 
there.’ 

4 1 am so glad you have told me all this, Harry dear, for I knew 
you had been less at home of late, and I was. almost afraid you were 
not going on quite well.’ 

4 That’s what it is,’ said Harry. 4 1 can’t stand things at all, 
and I can’t go moping about as Norman does. I can’t live without 


88 


THE DAISY CHAIN 


fun, and now Norman isn’t there, half the time it turns to something 
I am sorry for afterwards.’ 

4 But, Harry, if you let yourself be drawn into mischief here for 
want of Norman, what would you do at sea? ’ 

1 1 should be an officer ! ’ 

‘ I am afraid,’ said Margaret, smiling , 1 that would not make much 
difference inside, though it might outside. You must get the self- 
control, and leave off being afraid to be said to be afraid.’ 

Harry fidgetted. ‘ I should start fresh, and be out of the way of 
the Andersons,’ he said. ‘ That Anderson junior, is a horrid fellow — 
he spites Norman, and he bullied me, till I was big enough to show 
him that it would not do — and though I am so much younger, he is 
afraid of me. He makes up to me, and tries to get me into all the 
mischief that is going.’ 

1 And you know that, and let him lead you ? Oh, Harry ! ’ 

‘ I don’t let him lead me,’ said Harry, indignantly, 1 but I won’t 
have them say I can't do things.’ 

Margaret laughed, and Harry presently perceived what she meant, 
but instead of answering, he began to boast, ‘ There never was a 
May in disgrace yet, and there never shall be.’ 

1 That is a thing to be very thankful for,’ said Margaret, ’ but you 
know there may be much harm without public disgrace. I never 
heard of one of the Anderson’s being in disgrace yet.’ 

‘ No — shabby fellows, that just manage to keep fair with old 
Hoxton, and make a show,’ said Harry. ‘ They look at translations, 
and copy old stock verses. 0, it was such fun the other day. 
What do you think ? Norman must have been dreaming, for he had 
taken to school, by mistake, Richard’s old Gradus that Ethel uses, 
and there were ever so many rough copies of hers sticking in it.’ 

1 Poor Ethel ! What consternation she would be in ! I hope no 
one found it out.’ 

1 Why, Anderson junior, was gaping about in despair for sense 
for his verses — he comes on that, and slyly copies a whole set of her 
old ones, done when she — Norman I mean — was in the fifth form. 
His subject was a river, and hers Babylon ; .but, altering a line or 
two, it did just as well. He never guessed I saw him, and thought 
he had done it famously. He showed them up, and would have got 
some noted good mark, but that, by great good luck, Ethel had made 
two of her pentameters too short, which he hadn’t the wit to find 
out, thinking all Norman did must be right. So he has shown up 
a girl’s verses— isn’t that rare ? ’ cried Harry, dancing on his chair 
with triumph. 

‘ I hope no one knows they were hers ? ’ 

‘ Bless you, no ! ’ said Harry, who regarded Ethel’s attainments 
as something contraband. ‘ D’ye think I could tell ? No, that’s the 
only pity, that he can’t hear it; but, after all, I don’t care for any- 
thing he does, now I know he has shown up a girl’s verses. 5 , 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


89 


* Are these verses of poor Ethel’s safe at home ? ’ 

‘ Yes, I took care of that. Mind you don’t tell anyone, Margaret ; 

[ never told even Norman.’ 

‘ But all your school- fellows arn’t like these ? You have Hector 
Ernescliffe.’ 

‘ He’s a nice fellow enough, but he is little, and down in the school. 
’Twould be making a fourth form of myself to be after him. The 
fact is, Margaret, they are a low, ungentlemanly lot just now, about 
sixth and upper fifth form,’ said Harry, lowering his voice into an 
anxious confidential tone ; ‘ and since Norman has been less amongst 
them, they’ve got worse ; and you see, now home is different, and he 
isn’t like what he was, I’m thrown on them, and I want to get out 
of it. I didn’t know that was it before, but Richard showed me 
what set me on thinking of it, and I see she knew all about it.’ 

‘ That she did ! There is a great deal in what you say, Harry, 
but you know she thought nothing would be of real use but changing 
within. If you don’t get a root of strength in yourself, your ship 
will bo no better to you than school — there will be idle midshipmen 
as well as idle school boys.’ 

‘ Yes I know,’ said Harry ; ‘ but do you think papa will consent ? 
She would not have minded.’ 

‘ 1 can’t tell. I should think he would ; but if any scheme is to 
come to good, it must begin by your telling him of the going cut 
shooting.’ 

Harry sighed. ‘ I’d have done it long ago if she was here,’ he 
said. ‘ I never did anything so bad before without telling, and I don’t 
like it at all. It seems to come between him and me when I wish 
him good night.’ 

‘ Then, Harry, pray do tell him. You’ll have no comfort if you 
don’t.’ 

1 1 know I shan’t ; but then he’ll be so angry ! And, do you 
know, Margaret, ’twas worse than I told you, for a covey of partridges 
got up, and unluckily I had got the gun, and I fired and killed one, 
and that was regular poaching, you know ! And when we heard 
some one coming, how we did cut ! Ax — the other fellow, I mean, 
got it, and cooked it in his bed-room, and ate it for supper ; and he 
laughs about it, but I have felt so horrid all the week ! Suppose a 
keeper had got a summons ! ’ 

1 I can only say again, the only peace will be in telling him.’ 

‘ Yes ; but he will be so angry. When that lot of fellows a year 
or two ago, did something like it, and shot some of the Abbotstoko 
rabbits, don’t you remember how much he said about its being dis- 
graceful, and ordering us never to have anything to do with their 
gunnery ? And he will think it so very bad to have gone out on a 
lark just now ! 0, I wish I hadn’t done it.’ 

‘So do I, indeed, Harry! but I am sure, even if he should bo 
angry at first, he wgl be pleased with your confessing.’ 


1)0 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Harry looked very reluctant and disconsolate, and liis sister did 
not wonder — for Hr. May’s way of hearing of a fault was never to be 
calculated on. ‘ Come, Harry,’ said she, c if he is ever so angry, 
though I don’t think he will be, do you think that will be half as 
bad as this load at your heart ? Besides, if you are not bold enough 
to speak to him, do you think you can ever be brave enough for a 
sailor ? ’ 

1 1 will,’ said Harry, and the words were hardly spoken, before 
his father’s hand was on the door. He was taken by surprise at the 
moment of trial coming so speedily, and had half a mind to retreat 
by the other door; he was stayed by the reflection that Margaret 
would think him a coward, unfit for a sailor, and he made up his 
mind to endure whatever might betide. 

‘ Harry here ? This is company I did not expect.’ 

1 Harry has something to say to you, papa.’ 

1 Eh ! my boy, what is it ? ’ said he, kindly. 

1 Papa, I have killed a partridge. Two fellows got me to hire a 
gun, and go out shooting with them last Saturday/ said Harry, 
speaking firmly and boldly now he had once begun. 1 We meant 
only to go after pee-wits, but a partridge got up, and I killed it.’ 

Then came a pause. Harry stopped, and Hr. May waited, half 
expecting to hear that the boy was only brought to confession, by 
finding himself in a scrape. Margaret spoke. 1 And he could not 
be happy till he had told you.’ 

1 Is it so ? Is that the whole ? ’ said the Hoctor, looking at his 
son with a keen glance, between affection and inquiry, as if only 
waiting to be sure the confession was free, before he gave his free 
forgiveness. 

1 Yes, papa,’ said Harry, his voice and lip losing their firmness, 
as the sweetness of expression gained the day on his father’s face. 
1 Only that I know — ’twas very wrong — especially now — and I am 
very sorry — and I beg your pardon.’ 

The latter words came between sighs, fast becoming sobs, in spite 
of Harry’s attempts to control them, as his father held out his arm, 
and drew him close to him. 1 That’s mamma’s own brave boy,’ he 
said in his ear — in a voice which strong feeling had reduced to such 
a whisper, that even Margaret could not hear — she only saw how 
Harry, sobbing aloud, clung tighter and tighter to him, till he 
said, 4 Take care of my arm ! ’ and Harry sprung back at least a 
yard, with such a look of dismay, that the Hoctor laughed. 1 No 
harm done ! ’ said he. 1 1 was only a little in dread of such a young 
lion ! Come back, Harry,’ and lie took his hand. ‘ It was a bad 
'ece of work, and it will never do for you to let yourself be drawn 
mto every bit of mischief that is on foot; I believe I ought to give 
you a good lectuVe on it, but I can’t do it, after such a straight- 
forward confession. You must have gone through enough in the 
last week, not to be likely to do it again ’ 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


91 


‘ Yes, papa— thank you.’ 

‘ I suppose I must not ask you any questions about it, for fear of 
betraying the fellows,’ said Dr. May, half smiling. 

‘ Thank you, papa,’ said Harry, infinitely relieved and grateful, 
and quite content for some space to lean in silence against the chair, 
with that encircling arm round him, while some talk passed between 
his father and Margaret. 

What a world of thought passed through the boy’s young soul in 
that space ! First, there was a thrill of intense, burning love to his 
father, scarcely less fondness to his sweet motherly sister ; a clinging 
feeling to every chair and table of that room, which seemed still full 
of his mother’s presence ; a numbering over of all the others with 
ardent attachment, and a flinging from him with horror the notion of 
asking to be far away from that dearest father, that loving home, that 
arm that was round him. Anything rather than be without them in the 
dreary world ! But then came the remembrance of cherished visions, 
the shame of relinquishing a settled purpose, the thought of weary 
morrows, with the tempters among his playmates, and his home blank 
and melancholy ; and the roaming spirit of enterprise stirred again, 
and reproached him with being a baby, for fancying he could stay at 
home for ever. He would come back again with such honours as 
Alan Ernescliffe had brought, and oh ! if his father so prized them 
in a stranger, what would it be in his own son ? Come home to such 
a greeting as would make up for the parting ! Harry’s heart throbbed 
again for the boundless sea, the tall ship, and the wondrous foreign 
climes, where he had so often lived in fancy. Should he, could he 
speak; was this the moment? and he stood gazing at the fire, 
oppressed with the weighty reality of deciding his destiny. At last 
Dr. May looked in his face , 1 Well, what now, boy? You have your 
head full of something — what’s coming next?’ 

Out it came, 1 Papa, will you let me be a sailor ? ’ 

1 Oh ! ’ said Dr. May, £ that is come on again, is it ? I thought 
that you had forgotten all that.’ 

1 No, Papa,’ said Harry, with the manly coolness that the sense • 
of his determination gave him — ‘ it was not a mere fancy, and I 
have never had it out of my head. I mean it quite in earnest — I 
had rather be a sailor. I don’t wish to get away from Latin and 
Greek, I don’t mind them ; but I think I could be a better sailor 
than anything. I know it is not all play, but I am willing to 
rough it ; and I am getting so old, it is time to see about it, so will 
you consent to it, papa ? ’ 

‘ Well ! there’s some sense in your way of putting it,’ said Dr. 
May. 1 You have it strong in your head then, and you know ’tis 
not all fair weather work ! ’ 

1 That I do; Alan told me histories, and I’ve read all about it; 
but one must rough it anywhere, and if I am ever so far away, P1J 


92 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


try not to forget what’s right-. I’ll do my duty, and not care for 
danger.’ 

‘ "Well said, my man; but remember ’tis easier talking by one’s 
own fire-side, than doing when the trial comes.’ 

‘ And will you let me, papa ? ’ 

I I’ll think about it. I can’t make up my mind as “ quick as 

directly,” you know, Harry,’ said his father, smiling kindly , 1 but I 
won’t treat it as a boy’s fancy, for you’ve spoken in a manly way, 
and deserve to be attended to.’ * 1 Now run down, and tell the girls 
to put away their work, for I shall come down in a minute to read 
prayers.’ * 

Harry went, and his father sighed and mused ! 1 That’s a fine 

fellow ! So this is what comes of bringing sick sailors home — one’s 
own boys must be catching the infection. Little monkey, he talks 
as wisely as if he were forty ! He is really set on it, do you think, 
Margaret ? I’m afraid so 1 ’ 

I I think so,’ said Margaret; 1 1 don’t think he ever has it out 
of his mind ! ’ 

‘ And when the roving spirit once lays hold of a lad, ho must 
have his way — he is good for nothing else,’ said I)r. May. 

‘ I suppose a man may keep from evil in that profession, as well 
as in any other,’ said Margaret. 

‘ Aha ! you are bit too, are you ? ’ said the Doctor ; 1 ’tis the 
husbandman and viper, is it ? Then his smile turned into a heavy 
sigh, as he saw he had brought colour to Margaret’s pale cheek, 
but she answered calmly, 1 Dear mamma did not think it would be 
a bad thing for him.’ 

‘ I know,’ said the Doctor, pausing ; ‘ but it never came to this 
with her.’ 

‘ I wish he had chosen something else ; but ’ — and Margaret 
thought it right to lay before her father some part of what he had 
said of the temptations of the school at Stoneborough. The Doctor 
listened and considered; at last he rose, and said, ‘ Well, I’ll set 
Eitchie to write to Ernescliffe, and hear what he says. What must 
be, must be. ’Tis only asking me to give iip the boy, that’s all ;’ 
and as he left the room, his daughter again heard his sigh and half* 
uttered words, £ 0 Maggie, Maggie ! ’ 


CHAPTER X. 

‘ A talo 

Would rouse adventurous courage, iu a boy, 

And make him long to be a mariner, 

That he might rove the main.’ 

Southey. 

Etiieldred had the satisfaction of seeing the Taylors at school on 
Sunday, but no Halls made their appearance, and, on inquiry, she 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


93 


was told, Please ma’am, they said they would not come, so Ethel 
condemned Granny Hall as ‘ a horrid, vile, false, hypocritical old 
creature ! It was no use having any thing more to do with her.’ 

‘ Y ery well,’ said Richard ; ‘ then I need not speak to my father 1 

‘ Ritchie now ! you know I meant no such thing ! ’ 

1 You know, it is just what will happen continually.’ 

* Of course there will he failures, but this is so abominable, when 
they had those nice frocks, and those two beautiful eighteen-penny 
shawls ! There are three shillings out of my pound thrown away ! ’ 

‘ Perhaps there was some reason to prevent them. We will go 
and see.’ 

‘ We shall only hear some more palavering. I want to have no 
more to say to — ’ but here Ethel caught herself up, and began to 
perceive what a happiness it was that she had not the power of 
acting on her own impulses. 

‘ The twins and their little brother of two'years old were Christ- 
ened in the afternoon, and Flora invited the parents to drink tea in 
the kitchen, and visit Lucy, while Ethel and Mary each carried a 
baby up-stairs to exhibit to Margaret. 

Richard, in the meantime, had a conversation with John Taylor, 
and learnt a good deal about the district, and the number of the 
people. At tea, he began to rehearse his information, and the 
Doctor listened with interest, which put Ethel in happy agitation, 
believing that the moment was come, and Richard seemed to be only 
waiting for the conclusion of a long tirade against those who ought 
to do something for the place, when behold ! Blanche was climbing 
on her father’s knee, begging for one of his Sunday stories. 

Etheldred was cruelly disappointed, and could not at first rejoice 
to see her father able again to occupy himself with his little girl. 
The narration, in his low tones, roused her from her mood of vexa 
tion. It was the story of David, which he told in language 
scriptural and poetical, so pretty and tender in its simplicity, that 
she could not choose but attend. Ever and anon there was a glance 
towards Harry, as if he were secretly likening his own ‘yellow haired 
laddie’ to the ‘ shepherd boy, ruddy, and of a fair countenance.’ 

‘So Tom and Blanche,’ he concluded, ‘ can you tell me how wo 
may be like the shepherd-boy, David ? ’ 

‘ There arn’t giants now,’ said Tom. 

‘ Wrong is a giant,’ said his little sister. 

‘ Right, my white May-flower, and what then ? ’ 

‘ We are to fight,’ said Tom. 

‘ Yes, and mind, the giant with all his armour in ay be some 
great thing we have to do : but what did David begin with when 
he was younger ? ’ 

‘ The lion and the bear.’ 

‘ Aye, and minding his sheep. Perhaps little things, now you 
are little children, may be like tbe lion and the bear — so kill them 


94 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


off — get rid of them — cure yourself of whining or dawdling, oi 
whatever it be, and mind your sheep well,’ said he, smiling sweetly 
in answer to the children’s earnest looks as they caught his mean- 
ing, and if you do, you will not find it near so hard to deal with 
your great giant struggle when it comes.’ • 

Ah ! thought Ethel, it suits me as well as the children. I have 
a great giant on Cocksmoor, and here I am, not allowed to attack 
him, because, perhaps, I am not minding my sheep, and letting my 
lion and my bear run loose about the house. 

She was less impatient this week, partly from the sense of being 
on probation, and partly because she, in common with all the rest, 
was much engrossed with Harry’s fate. He came home every day 
at dinner-time with Norman to ask if Alan Ernescliffe’s letter had 
come ; and at length Mary and Tom met them open-mouthed with 
the news that Margaret had it in her room. 

Thither they hastened. Margaret held it out with a smile of 
congratulation. ‘ Here it is, Harry ; papa said you were to have 
it, and consider it well, and let him know, when you had taken 
time. You must do it soberly. It is once for all.’ 

Harry’s impetuosity was checked, and he took the letter quietly. 
His sister put her hand on his shoulder, ‘Would you mind my 
kissing you, dear Harry ? ’ and as he threw his arms round her 
necl$, she whispered. ‘ Pray that you may choose right.’ 

He went quietly away, and Norman begged to know what had 
been Alan Ernescliffe’s advice. 

‘ I can scarcely say he gave any direct advice,’ said Margaret ; 
4 he would not have thought that called for. He said, no doubt 
there were hardships and temptations, more or less, according to 
circumstances ; but, weighing one thing with another, he thought 
it gave as fair a chance of happiness as othel professions, and the 
discipline and regularity had been very good for himself, as well as 
for many others he had known. He said, when a man is willing to 
go wrong there is much to help him, but when he is resolved on 
doing right, he need not be prevented.’ 

‘ That is what you may say of anything,’ said Norman. 

‘ Just so ; and it answered papa’s question, whether it was ex- 
posing Harry to more temptation than he must meet with anywhere. 
That was the reason it was such a comfort to have any one to write 
to, who understands it so well.’ 

‘ Yes, and knows Harry’s nature.’ 

‘ He said he had been fortunate in his captains, and had led, on 
the whole, a happy life at sea ; and he thought if it was so with 
him, Harry was likely to enjoy it more, being of a hardy adven- 
turous nature, and a sailor from choice, not from circumstances.’ 

‘ Then he advised for it ? I did not think he would ; you know 
he will not let Hector be a sailor.’ 

‘ He told me he thought only a strong natural bent that way 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


95 


made it desirable, and that he believed Hector only -wished it from 
imitation of him. He said too, long ago, that he thought Harrv 
cut out for a sailor.’ 

. ‘ A spirited fellow ! ’ said Norman, with a look of saddened 
pride and approval, not at all like one so near the same age. 4 He 
is up to anything, afraid of nothing, he can lick any boy in the 
school already. It will be worse than ever without him ! ’ 

‘ Yes, you will miss your constant follower. He has been your 
shadow ever since he could walk. But there’s the clock, I must 
not keep you any longer; good-bye, Norman.’ 

Harry gave his brother the letter as soon as they were outside 
the house, and while he read it, took his arm and guided him. 
£ Well,’ said Norman as he finished. 

‘ It is all right,’ said Harry; and the two brothers said no more ; 
there was something rising up in their throats at the thought that 
they had very few more walks to take together to Bishop Which- 
cote’s school; Norman’s heart was very full at the prospect of 
another vacancy in his home, and Harry’s was swelling between 
the ardour of enterprise and the thought of bidding good-bye to 
each familiar object, and, above all, to the brother who had been 
his model and admiration from babyhood. 

1 June ! ’ at length he broke out, 1 I wish you were going too. I 
should not mind it half so much if you were.’ 

1 Nonsense, Harry ! you want to be July after June all your life, 
do you ? You’ll be much more of a man without me.’ 

That evening Dr. May called Harry into his study to ask him 
if his mind was made up ; he put the subject fairly before him, and 
told him not to be deterred from choosing what he thought would 
be for the best by any scruples about changing his mind. ‘ We shall 
not think a bit the worse of you; better now than too late.’ 

There was that in his face and tone that caused Harry to say, 
in a stifled voice, 1 1 did not think you would care so much, papa ; I 
won’t go, if you do.’ 

Dr. May put his hand on his shoulder, and was silent. Harry felt 
a strange mixture of hope and fear, joy and grief, disappointment and 
relief. 1 You must not give it up on that account, my dear,’ he said 
at length ; 1 1 should not let you see this, if it did not happen at a 
time when I can’t command myself as I ought. If you were an only 
son, it might be your duty to stay ; being one of many, ’tis nonsense 
to make a rout about parting with you. If it is better for you, it 
is better for all of us; and we shall do very well when you are once 
fairly gone. Don’t let that influence you for a moment.’ 

Harry paused, not that he doubted, but he was collecting his 
energies — ‘ Then, papa, I choose the Navy.’ 

4 Then it is done, Harry. You have chosen in a dutiful unsel- 
fish spirit, and I trust it will prosper with you; for I am sure your 
father’s blessing — aye, and your mother’s, too, go with you! Now 


96 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


then,’ after a pause, £ go and call Richard. I want him to write to 
Ernescliffe about that naval school. You must take your leave of 
the Whichcote foundation on Friday. I shall go and give Dr. Hox- 
ton notice to-morrow, and get Tom’s name down instead.’ 

And when the name of Thomas May was set down, Dr. Hoxton 
expressed his trust that it would pass through the school as free from 
the slightest blemish as those of Richard, Norman, and Harry May. 

Now that Harry’s destiny was fixed, Ethel began to think of 
Cocksmoor again, and she accomplished another walk there with 
Richard, Flora, and Mary, to question Granny Hall about the chil- 
dren’s failure. 

The old woman’s reply was a tissue of contradictions : the girls 
were idle hussies, all contrary ; they plagued the very life out of her, 
and she represented herself as using the most frightful threats, if they 
would not go to school. Breaking every bone in their skin was the 
least injury she promised them ; till Mary, beginning to think her a 
cruel old woman, took hold of her brother’s coat-tails for protection. 

£ But I am afraid, Mrs. Hall,’ said Richard, in that tone which 
might be either ironical or simple, £ if you served them so, they 
would never be able to get to school at all, poor things.’ 

1 Bless you, Sir, d’ye think I’d ever lay a finger near them ; it’s 
only the way one must talk to children, you see,’ said she, patron- 
izing his inexperience. 

£ Perhaps they have found that out,’ said Richard. 

Granny looked much entertained, and laughed triumphantly and 
shrewdly, £ aye, aye, that they have, the lasses — they be sharp 
enough for anything, that they be. Why, when I tell little Jenny 
that there’s the black man coming after her, what does she do but she 
ups and says, £ Granny, I know ’tis only the wind in the chimney.’ 

£ Then I don’t think it seems to answer,’ said Richard. £ Just 
suppose you were to try for once, really punishing them when they 
won’t obey you, perhaps they would do it next time.’ 

£ Why, Sir, you see I don’t like to take the stick to them ; they’ve 
got no mother, you see, Sir.’ 

Mary thought her a kind grandmother, and came out from be- 
hind her brother. 

. ‘ I think it would be kind to do it for once. What do you 
think they will do as they grow older, if you don’t keep them in or- 
der when they are little ? ’ 

This was foresight beyond Granny Hall, who began to expatiate 
on the troubles she had undergone in their service, and the ^ excel- 
lence of Sam. There was certainly a charm in her manners, for Ethel 
forgot her charge of ingratitude, the other sisters were perfectly taken 
with her, nor could they any of them help giving credence to her as- 
severations that Jenny and Polly should come to school next Sunday. 

They soon formed another acquaintance; a sharp-faced woman 
stood in their path, with a little girl in her hand, and arrested them 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


97 


with a low curtsey, and not a very pleasant voice, addressing her- 
eelf to Flora, who was quite as tall as Richard, and appeared the 
person of most consequence. 

‘ If you please, Miss, I wanted to speak to you. I have got a 
little girl here, and I want to send her to school, only I have no 
shoes for her.’ 

‘ Why, surely, if she can run about here on the heath, she can 
go to school,’ said Flora. 

‘ Oh ! but there is all the other children to point at her. The 
poor thing would be daunted, you see, Miss ; if I could but get some 
friend to give her a pair of shoes, I’d send her in a minute. I want 
her to get some learning ; as I am always saying, I’d never keep 
her away, if I had but got the clothes to send her in. I nev^r lets 
her be running on the common like them Halls, as it’s a shame to 
see them in nice frocks, as Mrs. Hall got by going hypercriting 
about.’ 

‘ What is your name ? ’ said Richard, cutting her short. 

‘Watts, if you please, Sir; we heard there was good work up 
here, Sir, and so we came ; but I’d never have set foot in it if I had 
known what a dark heathenish place it is, with never a Gospel min- 
ister to come near it,’ and a great deal more to the same purpose. 

Mary whispered to Flora something about having out-grown her 
boots, but Flora silenced her by a squeeze of the hand, and the two 
friends of Cocksmoor felt a good deal puzzled. 

At last Flora said, ‘ You will soon get her clothed if she comes 
regularly to school on Sundays, for she will be admitted into the 
club ; I will recommend her if she has a good character and comes 
regularly. Good morning, Mrs. Watts Now we must go, or it will 
be dark before we get home. And they walked hastily away. 

‘ Horrid woman ! ’ was Ethel’s exclamation. 

1 But, Flora,’ said innocent Mary, ‘ why would you not let me 
give the little girl my boots ? ’ 

‘ Perhaps I may, if she is good and comes to school,’ said Flora,. 

‘ I think Margaret ought to settle what you do with your boots,’ 
said Richard, not much to Flora’s satisfaction. 

‘ It is all the same,’ she said. ‘ If I approve, Margaret will not 
object.’ 

1 How well you helped us out, Flora,’ said Ethel ; ‘ I did not 
know in the least what to say.’ 

< It will be the best way of .testing her sincerity,’ said Flora, ‘ and 
at least it will do the child good ; but I congratulate you on the 
promising aspect of Cocksmoor.’ 

‘ We did not expect to find a perfect place,’ said Ethel; ‘if it 
were, it would be of no use to go to it.’ 

Ethel could answer with dignity, but her heart sunk at the 
aspect of what she had undertaken. She knew there would be evil, 
but she had expected it in a more striking and less disagreeable form. 
5 < 


98 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


That walk certainly made her less impatient, though it did no* 
relax her determination, nor the guard over her lion and bear, which 
her own good feeling, aided by Margaret’s counsel, showed her were 
the greatest hindrances to her doing anything good and great. 

Though she was obliged to set to work so many principles and 
reflections to induce herself to wipe a pen, or to sit straight on her 
chair, that it was like winding up a steam-engine to thread a needle ; 
yet the work was being done — she was struggling with her faults, 
humbled by them, watching them, and overcoming them. 

Flora, meanwhile, was sitting calmly down in the contemplation 
of the unexpected services she had rendered, confident that her 
character for energy and excellence was established, believing it 
herself, and looking back on her childish vanity and love of domi- 
neering as long past and conquered. She thought her grown-up 
character had begun, and was too secure to examine it closely. 


CIIAP TER XI. 

‘ One tiling is wanting in the beamy cup 

Of my young life! one thing to be poured in ; 

Aye, and one tiling is wanting to fill up 
The measure of proud joy, and make it sin.’ 

F. W. F. 

Hopes that Dr. May would ever have his mind free, seemed as 
fallacious as mamma’s old promise to Margaret, to make dolls’ 
clothes for her whenever there should be no live dolls to be worked 
for in the nursery. 

Richard and Ethel themselves had their thoughts otherwise en- 
grossed. The last week before the holidays was an important one. 
There was an examination, by which the standing of the boys in the 
school was determined, and this time it was of more than ordinary 
importance, as the Randall scholarship of £100 a year for three 
years would be open in the summer to the competition of the first 
six boys. Richard had never come within six of the top, but had 
been past at every examination by younger boys, till his father could 
bear it no longer ; and now Norman was too young to be likely to 
have much chance of being of the number. There were eight de- 
cidedly his seniors, and Harvey Anderson, a small, quick-witted boy, 
half a year older, who had entered school at the same time, and had 
always been one step below him, had, in the last three months, 
gained fast upon him. 

Harry, however, meant Norman to be one of the six, and de- 
clared all the fellows thought he would be, except Anderson’s party. 
Mr. Wilmot, in a call on Ethel and Flora, told them that he thought 
their brother had a fair chance, but he feared he was overworking 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


99 


himself, and should tell the Doctor so, -whenever he could catch him; 
but this -was difficult, as there was a great deal of illness just then, 
and he was less at home than usual. 

All this excited the home party, but Norman only seemed 
annoyed by talk about it, and though always with a book in his 
hand, was so dreamy and listless, that Flora declared there was no 
fear of his doing too much — she thought he would fail for want of 
trying. 

‘ I mean to try,’ said Norman; ‘say no more about it, pray.’ 

The great day was the 20th of December, and Ethel ran out, as 
the boys went to school, to judge of Norman’s looks, which were 
not promising. ‘ No wonder,’ said Harry, since he had stayed up 
doing Euripides and Cicero the whole length of a candle that had 
been new at bed-time. ‘ But never mind, Ethel, if he only beats 
Anderson, I don’t care for anything else.’ 

‘ 0, it will be unbearable if he does not ! Do try, Norman, dear. 5 

‘ Never you mind.’ 

‘ He’ll light up at the last moment,’ said Ethel, consolingly, to 
Harry ; but she was very uneasy herself, for she had set her heart 
on his surpassing Harvey Anderson. No more was heard all day. 
Tom went at dinner-time to see if he could pick up any news ; but 
he was shy, or was too late, and gained no intelligence. Dr. May 
and Bichard talked of going to hear the speeches and viva voce 
examination in the afternoon — objects of great interest to all Stone- 
borough men — but just as they came home from a long day’s work, 
Dr. May was summoned to the next town, by an electric telegraph, 
and, as it was to a bad case, he did not expect to be at home till 
the mail-train came in at one o’clock at night. Bichard begged to 
go with him, and he consented, unwillingly, to please Margaret, who 
could not bear to think of his ‘ fending for himself’ in the dark on 
the rail-road. 

Very long did the evening seem to the listening sisters. Eight, 
and no tidings ; nine, the boys not come ; Tom obliged to go to bed 
by sheer sleepiness, and Ethel unable to sit still, and causing Flora 
demurely to wonder at her fidgetting so much, it would be so much 
better to fix her attention to some employment ; while Margaret 
owned that Flora was right, but watched, and started at each sound / 
almost as anxiously as Ethel. 

It was ten, when there was a sharp pull at the bell, and down 
flew the sisters; but old James was beforehand, and Harry was 
exclaiming, ‘Dux! James, he is Dux! Hurrah! Flossy, Ethel, 
Mary ! There stands the Dux of Stoneborough ! Where’s papa ? ’ 

‘ Sent for to Whitford. But oh ! Norman, Dux ! Is he really ? ’ 

‘ To be sure, but I must tell Margaret ; ’ and up he rushed, 
shouted the news to her, but could not stay for congratulation ; 
broke Tom’s slumber by roaring it in his ear, and dashed into the 
nursery, where nurso for once forgave him for waking the baby 


100 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Norman, meanwhile, followed his eager sisters into the drawing* 
room, putting up his hand as if the light dazzled him, and looking, 
by no means, as if he had just achieved triumphant success. 

Ethel paused in her exultation : ‘ But is it, is it true, Norman ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ he said, wearily, making his way to his dark corner. 

‘ But what was it for ? How is it ? ’ 

‘ 1 don’t know,’ he answered. 

‘ What’s the matter?’ said Flora. ‘Are you tired, Norman, 
lear ; does your head ache ? ’ 

‘ Yes; ’ and the pain was evidently severe. 

‘ Won’t you come to Margaret ? ’ said Ethel, knowing what was 
the greater suffering ; but he did not move, and they forbore to 
torment him .with questions. The next moment Harry came down 
in an ecstacy, bringing in, from the hall, Norman’s beautiful prize- 
books, and showing off their Latin inscription. 

‘ Ah ! ’ said he, looking at his brother, ‘ he is regularly done for. 
He ought to turn in at once. That Everard is a famous fellow for 
an examiner. He said he never had seen such a copy of verses sent 
up by a school-boy, and could hardly believe June was barely six- 
teen. Old Hoxton says he is the youngest Dux they have had 
these fifty years that he has known the school, and Mr. Wilmot said 
’twas the most creditable examination he had ever known, and that 
I might tell papa so. What did possess that ridiculous old land- 
lubber at Whitford, to go and get on the sick-list on this, of all the 
nights of the year ? June, how can you go on sitting there, when 
you know you ought to be in your berth ? ’ 

‘ I wish he was,’ said Flora, ‘ but let him have some tea first.’ 

‘ And tell us more, Harry,’ said Ethel. ‘ Oh ! it is famous ! I 
knew he would come right at last. It is too delightful, if papa was 
but here ! ’ 

‘ Isn’t it ? You should have seen how Anderson grinned — he is 
only fourth — down below Forder, and Cheviot, and Ashe.’ 

‘ Well, I did not think Norman would have been before Forder 
and Cheviot. That is grand.’ 

‘ It was the verses that did it,’ said Harry ; they had an hour to 
do Themistocles on the hearth of Admetus, and there he beat them 
all to shivers. ’Twas all done smack, smooth, without a scratch, in 
Alcaics, and Cheviot heard Wilmot saying, ’twas no mere task, but 
had poetry, and all that sort of thing in it. But I don’t know 
whether that would have done, if he had not come out so strong in 
the recitation ; they put him on in Priam’s speech to Achilles, and 
he said it — Oh ! ’twas too bad papa did not hear him ! Every one 
held their breath and listened.’ 

‘ How you do go on ! ’ muttered Norman ; but no one heeded, 
iud Harry continued : ‘ He construed a chorus in Sophocles with- 
out a blunder ; but what did the business was this, I believe. They 
asked all manner of out-of-the-way questions — history and geogra- 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


103 


phy, what no one expected, and the fellows who read nothing they 
can help, were thoroughly posed. Forder had not a word to say, 
and the others were worse, for Cheviot thought Queen Elizabeths 
Earl of Leicester was Simon de Montfort ; and didn’t know when 
that battle was, beginning with an E. — was it Evesham, or Edee- 
liill?’ 


‘ O Harry, you are as bad yourself? ’ 

I Eut anyone would know Leicester, because of Kenilworth,’ 
said Harry ; 1 and I’m not sixth form. If papa had but been there ! 
Everyone was asking for him, and wishing it. For Dr. Hoxton 
called me — they shook hands with me, and wished me joy of it, and 
told me to tell my father how well Norman had done.’ 

‘ I suppose you looked so happily, they could not help it,’ said 
Flora, smiling at that honest beaming face of joy. 

‘ Aye,’ said Norman, looking up ; 1 they had something to say 
to him on his own score, which he has forgotten.’ 

I I should think not,’ said Harry. ‘ Why, what d’ye think they 
said ? That I had gone on as well as all the Mays, and they trusted 
I should still, and be a credit to my profession.’ 

‘ Oh ! Harry ! why didn’t you tell us ? Oh ! that is grand ! ’ 
and, as the two elder girls made this exclamation, Mary proceeded i 
to a rapturous embrace. ‘ Get along, Mary, you are throttling one. 
Mr. Everard enquired for my father and Margaret, and said he’d 
call to-morrow, and Hoxton and Wilmot kept on wishing he was 
there.’ 

1 1 wish he had been ! ’ said Ethel ; ‘ he would have taken such 
delight in it ; but, even if he could have gone, he doubted whether 
it would not have made Norman get on worse from anxiety.’ 

1 Well, Cheviot wanted liie to send up for him at dinner-time,’ 
said Harry ; ‘ for as soon as we sat down in the hall, J une turned 
off giddy, and could not stay, and looked so horrid, we thought it 
was all over with him, and he would not be able to go up at all.’ 

1 And Cheviot thought you ought to send for papa ! ’ 

‘Yes, I knew he would not be in, and so we left him lying down 
on the bench in the cloister till dinner was over.’ 

‘ What a place for catching cold ! ’ said Flora. 

1 So Cheviot said, but I couldn’t help it; and when we went to 
call him afterwards, he was all right. Wasn’t it fun, when the 
names were called over, and May senior, at the head ! I don’t 
think it will be better when I am a post-captain myself ! But 
Margaret has not heard half yet.’ 

After telling it once in her room, once in the nursery, in whis- 
pers like gusts of wind, and once in the pantry, Harry employed 
himself in writing — 1 Norman is Dux ! ’ in immense letters, on 
pieces of paper, which he disposed all over the house, to meet the 
eyes of his father and Bichard on their return. 

Ethel’s joy was sadly daw ped by Norman’s manner He hardly 


102 


THE DAISY CHAIH. 


spoke — only just came in to wish Margaret good-night, and shrank 
from her affectionate sayings, departing abruptly to his own room. 

‘ Poor fellow ! he is sadly overdone,’ said she, as he went. 

1 Oh ! 5 sighed Ethel, nearly ready to cry, * ’tis not like what 
I used to fancy it would be when he came to the head of the school ! ’ 

I It will be different to-morrow,’ said Margaret, trying to console 
herself as well as Ethel. ‘ Think how he has been on the strain 
this whole day, and long before, doing so much more than older 
boys. No wonder he is tired and worn out.’ 

Ethel did not understand what mental fatigue was, for her 
active, vigorous spirit had never been tasked beyond its powers. 

I I hope he will be like himself to-moirow ! ’ said she, disconso- 
lately. ‘I never saw him rough and hasty before. It was even 
with you, Margaret.’ 

‘ No, no, Ethel, you arn’t going to blame your own Norman for 
unkindness on this of all days in the year. You know how it was ; 
you love him better ; just as I do, for not being able to bear to stay 
in this room, where — ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Ethel, mournfully; ‘‘it was a great shame of me! 
IIow could I ? Hear Norman ! how he does grieve — what love his 
must have been ! But yet, Margaret,’ she said, impatiently, and 
the hot tears breaking out, ‘I cannot — cannot bear it! To have 
him not caring one bit for all of us ! I want him to triumph ! I 
can’t without him ! ’ 

‘ What, Ethel, you, who said you didn’t care for mere distinc- 
tion and praise ? Don’t you think dear mamma would say it was 
safer for him not to be delighted and triumphant ? ’ 

‘ It is very tiresome,’ said Ethel, nearly convinced, but in a 
slightly petulant voice. 

‘ And does not one love those two dear boys to-night ! ’ said 
Margaret. ‘ Norman, not able to rejoice in his victory without her, 
and Harry in such an ecstacy with Norman’s honours. I don’t 
think I ever was so fond of my two brothers.’ 

Ethel smiled ; and drew up her head, and said no boys were like 
them anywhere, and papa would be delighted, and so went to bed 
happier in her exultation, and in hoping that the holidays would 
make Norman himself again. 

Nothing could be better news for Dr. May, who had never lost 
a grain of the ancient school-party-loyalty that is part of the nature 
of the English gentleman. He was a thorough Stoneborougli 
boy, had followed the politics of the Whichcote foundation year by 
year all his life, and perhaps, in his heart, regarded no honour as 
more to be prized than that of Dux and llandall scholar. Harry 
was in his room the next morning as soon as ever he was stirring, a 
welcome guest — teased a little at first, by his pretending to take it 
all as a sailor’s prank to hoax him and Bicliard, and then free to 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


103 


pour out to delighted ears the whole history of the examination, 
and of everyone’s congratulations. 

Norman himself was asleep when Harry went to give this narration. 
He came down late, and his father rose to meet him as he entered. 
‘ My boy,’ he said, ‘ 1 had not expected this of you. Well done, Nor- 
man ! ’ and the whole tone and gesture had a heartfelt approval and 
joy in them, that Ethel knew her brother was deeply thrilled by, for 
his colour deepened, and his lips quivered into something like a smile, 
though he did not lift his eyes. 

Then came Richard’s warm greeting and congratulation, ne, too, 
showing himself as delighted as if the honours were his own ; and then 
Dr. May again, in lively tones, like old times, laughing at Norman for 
sleeping late, and still not looking well awake, asking him if he was 
quite sure it was not all a dream. 

1 Well,’ said Norman, ‘ I should think it was, if it were not that 
you all believe it.’ 

‘ Harry had better go to sleep next,’ said Dr. May, ; and sec what 
dreaming will make him. If it makes Dux of Norman, who knows 
but it may make Drakes of him ? Ha ! Ethel — 


1 0, give us for our Kings such Queens, 
And for our Ducks such Drakes.’ 


There had not been such a merry breakfast for months. There 
was the old confusion of voices; the boys, Richard, and the Doctor 
had much to talk over of the school doings of this week, and there was 
nearly as much laughing as in days past. Ethel wondered whether 
anyone but herself observed that the voice most seldom heard was 
Norman’s. 

The promised call was made by Dr. Iloxton, and Mr. Everard, an 
old friend, and after their departure Dr. May came to Margaret’s room 
with fresh accounts, corroborating what Harry had said of the clear 
knowledge and brilliant talent that Norman had displayed, to a degree 
that surprised his masters, almost as much as the examiners. The copy 
of verses Dr. May brought with him, and construed them to Margaret, 
commenting all the way on their ease, and the fulness of thought, cer- 
tainly remarkable in a boy of sixteen. 

They were then resigned to Ethel’s keeping, and she could not help 
imparting her admiration to their author, with some apology for vex- 
ing him again. 

‘ X don’t want to be cross,’ said Norman, whom these words roused 
to a sense that he had been churlish last night ; ‘ but I cannot help it. 
I wish people would not make such a fuss about it.’ 

‘ I don’t think you can be well, Norman.’ 

‘ Nonsense. . There’s nothing the matter with me.’ 

t Rut I don’t understand your not caring at all, and not being the 
’.east pleased.’ 

< It only makes it worse,’ said Norman ; ‘ I only feel as if I wanted 


104 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


to be out of the way. My only comfortable time yesterday was or 
that bench in the cool quiet cloister. I don’t think I could have got 
through without that, when they left me in peace, till Cheviot and Har 
ry came to rout me up, and I knew it was all coming.’ 

1 Ah! you have overworked yourself, but it was for something. 
You have given papa such pleasure and comfort, as you can’t help be- 
ing glad of. That is very different from us foolish young ones and 
our trumpeting.’ 

‘ What comfort can it be ? I’ve not been the smallest use all this 
time. When he was ill, I left him to Ernescliffe, and lay on the floor 
like an ass ; and if he were to ask me to touch his arm, I should be as 
bad again. A fine thing for me to have talked all that arrogant stuff 
about Richard ! I hate the thought of it; and, as if to make arrows 
and barbs of it, here’s Richard making as much of this as if it was 
a double first class ! He afraid to be compared with me, indeed ! ’ 

‘ Norman, indeed, this is going too far. We can’t be as useful as 
the elder ones ; and when you know how papa was vexed about Rich- 
ard, you must be glad to have pleased him.’ 

* If I were he, it would only make me miss her more. I believe he 
only makes much of me that he may not disappoint me.’ 

‘ I don’t think so. He is really glad, and the more because she 
would have been so pleased. He said it would have been a happy day 
for her, and there was more of the glad look than the sorry one. It 
was the glistening look that comes when he is watching baby, or hear- 
ing Margaret say pretty things to her. Y"ou see it is the first bright 
morning we have had.’ 

1 Yes,’ said Norman ; 1 perhaps it was, but I don’t know. I thought 
half of it was din.’ 

1 Oh Norman ! ’ 

‘ And another thing, Ethel, I don’t feel as if I had fairly earned 
it. Eorder or Cheviot ought to have had it. They are both more 
really good scholars than I am, and have always been above me. 
There was nothing I really knew better, except those historical ques- 
tions that no one reckoned ofi ; and not living at home with their sis- 
ters and books, they had no such chance, and it is very hard on them, 
and I don’t like it.’ 

‘ Well, but you really and truly beat them in everything.’ 

‘ Aye, by chance. There were lots of places in construing, where 
I should have broken down if I had happened to be set on in them ; it 
was only a wonder I did not in that chorus, for I had only looked at 
it twice ; but Everard asked me nothing but what I knew ; and now 
and then I get into a funny state, when nothing is too hard for me, 
and that was how it was yesterday evening. Generally, I feel as dull 
as a post,’ said Norman, yawning and stretching; ‘ I could not make 
a nonsense hexameter this minute, if I was to die for it.’ 

1 A sort of Berserkar fury ! ’ said Ethel, 1 like that night you did 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 105 

the coral- worm verses. It’s very odd. Are you sure you arc well 
dear Norman ? ’ 

To which he answered, with displeasure, that he was as well as pos- 
sible, ordered her not to go and make any more fuss, and left her 
hastily. She was unhappy, and far from satisfied ; she had never 
known his temper so much affected, and was much puzzled ; but she 
was too much afraid of vexing him, to impart her perplexity even to 
Margaret. However, the next day, Sunday, as she was reading to 
Margaret after Church, her father came in, and the first thing he 
said was, ‘ I want to know what you think of Norman.’ 

‘ How do you mean ? ’ said Margaret ; ‘ in health or spirits ? ’ 

‘ Both,’ said Dr. May. ‘ Poor boy ! he has never held up his 
head since October, and, at his age, that is hardly natural. He goes 
moping about, has lost flesh and appetite, and looks altogether out 
of order, shooting up like a May-pole too.’ 

1 Mind and body,’ said Margaret, while Ethel gazed intently at her 
father, wondering whether she ought to speak, for Margaret did not 
know half what she did ; nothing about the bad nights, nor what he 
called the 1 funny state.’ 

{ Yes, both. I fancied it was only his rapid growth, and the ex- 
citement of this examination, and that it would go off, but I think 
there’s more amiss. He was lounging about doing nothing, when the 
girls were gone to school after dinner, and I asked him to walk down 
with me to the Almshouses. He did not seem very willing, but he 
went, and presently, as I had hold of his arm, I felt him shivering, 
and saw him turn as pale as a sheet. As soon as I noticed it, he 
flushed crimson, and would not hear of turning back, stoutly protest- 
ing he was quite well, but I saw his hand quivering even when I got 
into Church. Why, Ethel, you have turned as red as he did.’ 

‘ Then he has d)ne it ! ’ exclaimed Ethel, in a smothered voice. 

‘ What do you mean ? Speak, Ethel.’ 

1 He has gone past it — the place,’ whispered she. 

The Doctor made a sound of sorrowful assent, as if much struck ; 
then said, 1 You don’t mean he has never been there since ? ’ 

. ‘ Yes,’ said Ethel, 1 he has always gone round Bandall’s alley or 
the garden ; he has said nothing, but has contrived to avoid it.’ 

* Well,’ said Dr. May, after a pause, ‘I hoped none of us knew 
the exact spot.’ 

1 We don’t; he never told us, but he was there.’ 

‘ Was he ? ’ exclaimed her father ; ‘ I had no notion of that. How 
came he there ? ’ 

‘ He went on with Mr. Erncscliffe, and saw it all,’ said Ethel, as 
her father drew out her words, apparently with his eye ; ‘ and then 
came up to my room so faint that he was obliged to lie on the floor 
ever so long.’ 

‘ Faint — how long did it last ? ’ said her father, examining hei 
without apparent emotion, as if it had been an indifferent patient. 


106 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 1 don’t know, things seemed so long that evening. Till after dark 
at least, and it came on in the morning — no, the Monday. I believe it 
was your arm — for talking of going to see you always brought it on, till 
Mr. Ward gave him a dose of brandy-and- water, and that stopped it. 

‘ I wish I had known this before. Derangement of the nervous 
system, no doubt — a susceptible boy like that — I wonder what sort 
of nights he has been having.’ 

‘ Terrible ones,’ said Ethel ; ‘ I don’t think he ever sleeps quietly 
till morning ; he has dreams, and he groans and talks in his sleep : 
Harry can tell you all that.’ 

1 Bless me ! ’ cried Dr. May, in some anger ; ‘ what have you all 
been thinking about to keep this to yourselves all this time ! ’ 

1 He could not bear to have it mentioned,’ said Ethel, timidly ; 

‘ and I didn’t know that it signified so much ; does it ? ’ 

1 It signifies so much, that I had rather have given a thousand 
pounds than have let him go on all this time, to be overworked at 
school, and wound up to that examination ! ’ 

‘ Oh dear ! I am sorry ! ’ said Ethel, in great dismay. 1 If you had 
but been at home when Cheviot wanted Harry to have sent for you 
— because he did not think him fit for it ! ’ And Ethel was much re- 
lieved by pouring out all she knew, though her alarm was by no means 
lessened by the effect it produced on her father, especially when he 
heard of the “ funny state.” ’ 

1 A fine state of things,’ he said ; 1 1 wonder it has not brought on 
a tremendous illness by this time. A boy of that sensitive tempera- 
ment meeting with such a shock — never looked after — the quietest and 
most knocked down of all, and therefore the most neglected — his 
whole system disordered — and then driven to school to be harassed 
and overworked ; if we wanted to occasion a brain fever we could not 
have gone a better way to set about it.’ I should not wonder if 
health and nerves were damaged for life ! ’ . 

‘ Oh ! papa, papa ! ’ cried Ethel, in extreme distress, f what 
shall I do ! I wish I had told you, but — ’ 

‘ I’m not blaming you, Ethel, you knew no better, but it has 
been grievous neglect. It is plain enough there is no one to see 
after you,’ said the Doctor with a low groan. 

1 We may be taking it in time,’ said Margaret’s soft voice — ‘ it 
is very well it has gone on no longer.’ 

1 Three months is long enough,’ said Dr. May. 

£ I suppose,’ continued Margaret, ‘ it will be better not to let 
dear Norman know we are uneasy about him.’ 

1 No, no, certainly not. Don’t say a word of this to him. I shall 
find Harry, and ask about these disturbed nights, and then watch 
him, trusting it may not have been gone too far ; but there must be 
dreadful excitability of brain ! ’ 

He went away, leaving Margaret to comfort Ethel as well as 
she could, by showing her that he had not said the mischief was 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


107 


done, putting her in mind that he was wont to speak strongly ; and 
trying to make her thankful that her brother would now have such 
care as might avert all evil results. 

‘ But, oh,’ said Ethel, 1 his success has been dearly purchased ! ’ 


CHAPTER XII. 

‘ It hath do me mochil woe.’ 

‘Yea hath it? Use,’ quod he, ‘this medicine; 

Every daie this Maie or that thou dine. 

Go lokin in upon the freshe daisie, 

And though thou be for woe in poinct to die, 

That shall full gretly lessen thee of thy pine.’ 

Chaucer. 

1 hat night Norman started from, what was not so much sleep as a 
tiance of oppression and suffering, and beheld his father’s face 
watching him attentively. 

4 Papa ! What’s the matter ? ’ said he, starting it up. ‘ Is any- 
one ill?’ 

‘ No ; no one, lie down again,’ said Dr. May, possessing himself 
of a hand, with a burning spot in the palm, and a throbbing pulse. 

‘ But what made you come here ? Have I disturbed anyone ? 
Have I been talking ? ’ 

1 Only mumbling a little, but you looked very uncomfortable.’ 

i But I’m not ill — what are you feeling my pulse for ? ’ said 
Norman, uneasily. 

‘ To see whether that restless sleep has quickened it.’ 

Nornm i scarcely let his father count for a moment, before he 
asked, ‘ What o’clock is it ? ’ 

‘ A little after twelve.’ 

1 What does make you stay up so late, papa ? ’ 

‘I often do when my arm seems likely to keep me awake. 
Richard has done all I want.’ 

1 Pray don’t stay here in the cold,’ said Norman, with feverish 
impatience, as he turned upwards the cool side of his pillow. ( Good 
night ! ’ 

1 No hurry,’ said his father, still watching him. 

1 There’s nothing the matter,’ repeated the boy. 

1 Do you often have such unquiet nights ? ’ 

‘ Oh, it does not signify. Good night,’ and he tried to look 
settled and comfortable. 

1 Norman,’ said his father, in a voice betraying much grief, ‘ it 
will not do to go on in this way. If your mother was here, you 
would not close yourself against her.’ 

Norman interrupted him in a voice strangled with sobs: 1 It is 
no good saying it — I thought it would only make it worse for you; 
but that’s it. I cannot bear the being without her.’ 


108 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Dr. May was glad to see that a gush of tears followed this ex 
clamation, as Norman hid his face under the coverings. 

1 My poor hoy,’ said he, hardly able to speak, ‘ only One can 
comfort you truly ; but you must not turn from me ; you must let 
me do what I can for you, though it is not the same.’ 

4 1 thought it would grieve you more,’ said Norman, turning 
his face toward him again. 

4 What, to find my children feeling with me, and knowing what 
they have lost ? Surely not, Norman.’ 

4 And it is of no use,’ added Norman, hiding his face again, 4 no 
one can comfort — ’ 

4 There you are wrong,’ said Dr. May with deep feeling, 4 there 
is much of comfort in everything, in everybody, in kindness, in all 
around, if one can only open one’s mind to it. But I did not come 
to keep you awake with such talk ; I saw you were not quite well, 
so I came up to see about you; and now, Norman, you will not 
refuse to own that something is the matter.’ 

4 1 did not know it,’ said Norman, 4 1 really believe I am well, 
if I could get rid of these horrible nights. I either lie awake, 
tumbling and tossing, or I get all sorts of unbearable dreams.’ 

4 Aye, when I asked master Harry about you, all the answer 
I could get was, that he was quite used to it, and did not mind it 
at all. As if I asked for his sake ! How fast that boy sleeps — 
lie is fit for a midshipman’s berth ! ’ 

4 But do you think there is anything amiss with me ? ’ 

4 1 shall know more about that to-morrow morning. Come to 
my room as soon as you are up, unless I come to you. Now, 
I have something to read before I go to bed, and I may as well try 
if it will put you to sleep.’ 

Norman’s last sight that night was of the outlines of his father’s 
profile, and he was scarcely awake the next morning before Dr. May 
was there again. 

Unwilling as he had been to give way, it was a relief to relin 
quish the struggle to think himself well, and to venture to lounge 
and dawdle, rest his heavy head, and stretch his inert limbs with- 
out fear of remark. His father found him after breakfast lying on 
the sofa in the drawing-room with a Greek play by his side, telling 
Ethel what words to look out. 

1 At it again ! ’ exclaimed Dr. May. 4 Carry it away, Ethel. 
I will have no Latin or Greek touched these holidays.’ 

4 You know,’ said Norman, 4 if I don’t sap, I shall have no chance 
of keeping up.’ 

4 You’ll keep no where, if you don’t rest.’ 

4 It is only Euripides, and I can’t do anything else,’ said Nor- 
man, languidly. 

‘ Very likely, I don’t care. You have to get well first of all, 
and the Greek will take care of itself. Go up to Margaret. I put 


T1IE DAISY CHAIN. 


109 


you in her keeping, while I am gone to Whitford. After that, 
I dare say Richard will be very glad to have a holiday, and let you 
drive me to Abbotstoke.’ 

Norman rose, and wearily walked up stairs, while his sister lin- 
gered to excuse herself, ‘ Papa, I do not think Euripides would 
hurt him — he knows it all so well, and he said he could not read 
anything else.’ 

‘ Just so, Ethel. Poor fellow, he has not spirits or energy for 
anything ; his mind was forced into those classicalities when it 
wanted rest, and now it has not spring enough to turn back again.’ 

‘ Do you think him so very ill ? ’ 

‘ Not exactly, but there’s low fever hanging about him, and wo 
must look after him well, and I hope we may get him right. I have 
told Margaret about him; I can’t stop any longer now.’ 

Norman found the baby in his sister’s room, and this was just 
what suited him. The Daisy showed a marked preference for her 
brothers ; and to find her so merry and good with him, pleased 
and flattered him far more than his victory at school. He carried 
her about, danced her, whistled to her, and made her admire her 
pretty blue eyes in the glass most successfully, till nurse carried 
her off. But perhaps he had been sent up rather too soon, for as 
he sat in the great chair by the fire, he was teased by the constant 
coming and going, all the petty cares of a large household trans- 
acted by Margaret — orders to butcher and cook — Harry racing in 
to ask to take Tom to the river — Tom, who was to go when his 
lesson was done, coming perpetually to try to repeat the same un- 
happy bit of As in Prcesenti, each time in a worse whine. 

‘ How can you bear it, Margaret ? ’ said Norman, as she finally 
dismissed Tom, and laid down her account-book, taking up some 
delicate fancy work. ‘ Mercy, here’s another,’ as enter a message 
about lamp oil, in the midst of which Mary burst in to beg Mar- 
garet to get Miss Winter to let her go to the river with Harry and 
Tom. 

‘ No, indeed, Mary, I could not think of such a thing. You 
had better go back to your lessons, and don’t be silly,’ as she hooked 
much disposed to cry. 

‘No one but a Tom-boy would dream of it,’ added Norman, 
and Mary departed disconsolate, while Margaret gave a sigh of 
weariness, and said, as she returned to her work, ‘ There, I believe 
I have done. I hope I was not cross with poor Mary, but it was 
rather too much to ask.’ 

‘ I can’t think how you can help being cross to everyone,’ said 
Norman, as he took away the books she had done with. 

‘ I am afraid I am,’ said Margaret, sadly. ‘ It does get trying 
at times.’ 

‘ I should think so This eternal worrying mus ; be more than 
anyone can bear, always lying there too.’ 


110 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ It is only now and then that it grows tiresome,’ said Margaret 
‘ I am too happy to he of some use, and it is too bad to repine, but 
sometimes a feeling comes of its being always the same, as if a 
little change would be such a treat.’ 

1 Arn’t you very tired of lying in bed ? ’ 

1 Yes, very sometimes. I fancy, but it is only fancy, that I 
could move better if I was up and dressed. It has seemed more so 
lately, since I have been stronger.’ 

£ When do you think they will let you get up ? ’ 

‘ There’s the question. I believe papa thinks I might be lifted 
to the sofa now — and oh! how I long for it — but then Mr. Ward 
does not approve of my sitting up, even as I am doing now, and 
wants to keep me flat. Papa thinks that of no use, and likely to 
hurt my general health, and I believe the end of it will be that he 
will ask Sir Matthew Fleet’s opinion.’ 

Is that the man he calls Mat ? ’ 

1 Yes, you know they went through the University together, and 
were at Edinburgh and Paris, but they have never met since he set 
up in London, and grew so famous. I believe it would be a great 
treat to papa to have him, and it would be a good thing for papa too ; 
I don’t think his arm is going on right — he does not trust to Mr 
Ward’s treatment, and I am sure some one else ought to see it.’ 

1 Did you know, Margaret, that he sits up quite late, because he 
cannot sleep for it ? ’ 

‘-Yes, I hear him moving about, but don’t tell him so ; I would 
not have him guess for the world, that it kept me awake.’ 

‘ And does it ? ’ 

1 Why, if I think he is awake and in pain, I cannot settle myself 
to sleep, but that is no matter ; having no exercise, of course I don’t 
sleep so much. Put I am very anxious about him — he looks so thin, 
and gets so fagged — and no wonder.’ 

1 Ah ! Mr. Everard told me he was quite shocked to see him, and 
would hardly have known him,’ and Norman groaned from the bot- 
tom of his heart. 

‘ Well, I shall hope much from Sir Matthew’s taking him in hand,’ 
said Margaret, cheerfully ; 1 he will mind him, though he will not 
Mr. Ward.’ 

4 I wish the holidays were over ! ’ said Norman, with a yawn, as 
expressive as a sigh. 

4 That’s not civil, on the third day,’ said Margaret, smiling, * when 
I am so glad to have you to look after me, so as to set Flora at liberty. 

1 What, can I do you any good ? ’ said Norman, with a shade of 
his former alacrity. 

1 To be sure you can, a great deal. Better not come near me 
otherwise, for I make everyone into a slave. I want my morning 
reading now, that book on Advent, there.’ 

‘ Shall I read it to you ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Ill 


‘ Thank you, that’s nice, and I shall get on with baby’s frock.’ 

Norman read, but, ere long, took to yawning ; Margaret begged 
for the book, which he willingly resigned, saying, however, that lie 
liked it, only he was stupid. She read on aloud, till she heard a suc- 
cession of heavy breathings, and saw him fast asleep, and so he con- 
tinued till waked by his father’s coming home. 

Richard and Ethel were glad of a walk, for Margaret had found 
them a pleasant errand. Their Cocksmoor children could not go 
home to dinner between service and afternoon school, and Margaret 
had desired the cook to serve them up some broth in the back kitchen, 
to which the brother and sister were now to invite them. Mary was 
allowed to take her boots to Rebekah Watts, since Margaret held 
that goodness had better be profitable, at least at the outset ; and 
Harry and Tom joined the party. 

Norman, meantime, was driving his father — a holiday preferment 
highly valued in the days when Dr. May used only to assume the 
reins, when his spirited horses showed too much consciousness that 
they had a young hand over them, or when the old hack took a fit 
of laziness. Now, Norman needed Richard’s assurance that the bay 
was steady, so far was he from being troubled with his ancient desire, 
that the steed would rear right up on his hind legs. 

He could neither talk nor listen till he was clear out of the town, 
ard found himself master of the animal, and even then the words 
were few, and chiefly spoken by Dr. May, until after going along about 
three miles of the turnpike road, he desired Norman to turn down 
a cross-country lane. 

1 Where does this lead ? ’ 

‘ It comes out at Abbotstoke, but I have to go to an outlying 
farm.’ 

1 Papa,’ said Norman, after a few minutes, ‘I wish you would let 
me do my Greek.’ 

‘ Is that what you have been pondering all this time ? What, 
may not the bonus Homerus slumber sometimes ? ’ 

‘ It is not Homer, it is Euripides. I do assure you, papa, it is 
no trouble, and I get much worse without it.’ 

‘ Well, stop here, the road grows so bad that we will walk, and 
let the boy lead the horse to meet us at Woodcote.’ 

Norman followed his father down a steep narrow lane, little better 
than a stony water-course, and began to repeat, 1 If you would but 
let me do my work ! I’ve got nothing else to do, and now they have 
put me up, I should not like not. to keep my place.’ 

1 Very likely, but — hollo — how swelled this is ! ’ said Dr. May, 
as they came to the bottom of the valley, where a stream rushed 
along, coloured with a turbid creamy yellow, making little whirlpools 
where it crossed the road, and brawling loudly just above where it 
roared and foamed between two steep banks of rock, crossed by a 
foot-bridge of planks, guarded by a handrail of rough poles. The 


12 


T£IE DAISY CIIAIN. 


Doctor had traversed it, and gone a few paces beyond, when, looking 
back, he saw Norman very pale, with one foot on the plank, and one 
hand grasping the rail. He came back, and held out his hand, which 
Norman gladly caught at, but no sooner was the other side attained, 
than the boy, though he gasped with relief exclaimed, ‘ This is too 
bad ! ’ Wait one moment, please, and let me go back.’ 

He tried, but the first touch of the shaking rail, and glance at the 
chasm, disconcerted him, and his father, seeing his white cheeks and 
rigid lips, said, ‘ Stop, Norman, don’t try it. You are not fit,’ he 
added, as the boy came to him reluctantly. 

I can’t bear to be such a wretch ! ’ said he. ‘ I never used to be. 
I will not — let me conquer it ; ’ and he was turning back, but the 
Doctor took his arm, saying decidedly, ‘ No, I won’t have it done. 
You are only making it worse, by putting a force on yourself.’ 

Hut the further Norman was from the bridge, the more displeased 
he was with himself, and more anxious to dare it again. ‘ There’s 
no bearing it,’ he muttered ; ‘ let me only run back. I’ll overtake 
you. I must do it if no one looks on.’ 

‘ No such thing,’ said the Doctor, holding him fast. ‘ If you do, 
you’ll have it all over again at night.’ 

‘ That’s better than to know I am worse than Tom.’ 

I I tell you, Norman, it is no such thing. You will recover your 
tone if you will only do as you are told, but your nerves have had a 
severe shock, and when you force yourself in this way, you only in- 
crease the mischief.’ 

‘ Nerves,’ muttered Norman, disdainfully, 1 1 thought they were 
only fit for fine ladies.’ 

Dr. May smiled. ‘ Well, will it content you if I promise that 
as soon as I see fit, I’ll bring you here, and let you march over that 
bridge as often as you like ? ’ 

‘ I suppose I must be contented, but I don’t like to feel like a fool.’ 

1 You need not while the moral determination is sound.’ 

‘ But my Greek, papa.’ 

1 At it again — I declare, Norman, you are the worst patient I ever 
had!’ 

Norman made no answer, and Dr. May presently said i Well, let 
me hear what you have to say about it. I assure you it is not 
that I don’t want you to get on, but that I see you are in great need 
of rest.’ 

# 1 Thank you, papa. I know you mean it for my good, but I don’t 
think you do know how horrid it is. I have got nothing on earth to 
do or care for — the school work comes quite easy to me, and I’m 
sure thinking is worse ; and then,’ Norman spoke vehemently, ‘ now 
they have put me up, it will never do to be beaten, and all the four 
others ought to be able to do it. I did not want or expect to be Dux, 
but now I am, you could not bear me not to keep my place, and to 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


113 


miss the Randall scholarship, as I certainly shall, if I do not work 
these whole holidays.’ 

‘ Norman, I know it,’ said his father, kindly. 1 1 am very sorry 
for yon, and I know I am asking of you what I could not have done 
at your age — indeed, I don’t believe I could have done it for you a 
few months ago. It is my fault that you have been let alone, to 
have an overstrain and pressure on your mind, when you were not 
fit for it, and I cannot see any remedy but complete freedom from 
work. At the same time, if you fret and harass yourself about being 
surpassed, that is, as you say, much worse for you than Latin and 
Greek. Perhaps I may be wrong, and study might not do you the 
harm I think it would ; at any rate, it is better than tormenting your- 
self about next half year, so I will not positively forbid it, but I 
think you had much better let it alone. I don’t want to make it a 
matter of duty. I only tell you this, that you may set your mind at 
rest as far as I am concerned. If you do lose your place, I will 
consider it as my own doing, and not be disappointed. I had rather 
see you a healthy, vigorous, useful man, than a poor puling nervous 
wretch of a scholar, if you were to get all the prizes in the Univer- 
sity.’ 

Norman made a little murmuring sound of assent, and both were 
silent for some moments, then he said ; ‘ Then you will not be dis- 

pleased, papa, if I do read, as long as I feel it does me no harm.’ 

‘ I told you I don’t mean to make it a matter of obedience. Do 
as you please — I had rather you read than vexed yourself.’ 

‘ I am glad of it. Thank you, papa,’ said Norman, in a much 
cheered voice. 

They had, in the meantime, been mounting a rising ground, 
clothed with stunted wood, and came out on a wide heath, brown 
with dead bracken ; a hollow, traced by the tops of leafless trees, 
marked the course of the stream that traversed it, and the inequali- 
ties of ground becoming more rugged in outlines and greyer in col- 
ouring as they receded, till they were closed by a dark fir wood, be- 
yond which rose in extreme distance, the grand mass of Welsh 
mountain heads, purpled against the evening sky, except where the 
crowning peaks bore a veil of snow. Rebind, the sky was pure gold, 
gradually shading into pale green, and then into clear light wintry 
blue, while the sun setting behind two of the loftiest, seemed to 
confound their outlines, and blend them in one flood of soft hazy 
brightness. Dr. May looked at his son, and saw his face clear up, 
his brow expand, and his lips unclose with admiration. 

‘ Yes,’ said the Doctor, ‘ it is very fine, is it not ? I used to bring 
mamma here now and then for a treat, because it put her in mind ot 
her Scottish hills. Well, yours are the golden hills of heaven, now, 
my Maggie ! ’ he added, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. Nor- 
man’s throat swelled, as lie looked up in his face, then cast down his 
eyes hastily to hide the tears that had gathered on his eyelashes. 


L14 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


* I’ll leave you here,’ said Dr. May, 1 1 have to go to a farm- 
house close by, in the hollow behind us, there’s a girl recovering from 
a fever. I’ll not be ten minutes, so wait here.’ 

When he came back, Norman was still where he had left him 
gazing earnestly, and the tears standing on his cheeks. He did noi 
move till his father laid his hand on his shoulder — they walked 
away together without a word, and scarcely spoke all the way home 

Dr. May went to Margaret, and talked to her of Norman’s fine 
character, and intense affection for his mother, the determined tem- 
per, and quietly borne grief, for which the Doctor seemed to have 
worked himself into a perfect enthusiasm of admiration ; but lament- 
ing that he could not tell what to do with him — study or no study 
hurt him alike — and he dreaded to see health and spirits shattered 
for ever. They tried to devise change of scene, but it did not seem 
possible just at present; and Margaret, beside her fears for Norman, 
was much grieved to see this added to her father’s troubles. 

At night Dr. May again went up to see whether Norman, whom 
he had moved into Margaret’s former room, were again suffering from 
fever. He found him asleep in a restless attitude, as if he had 
just dropped off, and waking almost at the instant of his entrance, 
he exclaimed, ‘ Is it you ? I thought it was mamma. She said it 
was all ambition.’ 

Then starting, and looking round the room, and at his father, 
he collected himself, and said, with a slight smile, 1 1 didn’t know I 
had been asleep. I was awake just now, thinking about it. Papa, 
I’ll give it up. I’ll try to put next half out of my head, and not 
mind if they do pass me.’ 

‘ That’s right, my boy,’ said the Doctor. 

‘ At least if Cheviot and Forder do, for they ought. I only 
hope Anderson won’t. I can stand any thing but that. But that 
is nonsense too.’ 

1 You are quite right, Norman,’ said the Doctor, 1 and it is a 
great relief to me that you see the thing so sensibly.’ 

4 No, I don’t see it sensibly at all, papa. I hate it all the time, 
and I don’t know whether I can keep from thinking of it, when I 
nave nothing to do ; but I see it is wrong ; I thought all ambi- 
tion and nonsense was gone out of me, when I cared so little for 
the examination ; but now I see, though I did not want to be made 
first, I can’t bear not to be first; and that’s the old story, just as 
she used to tell me to guard against ambition. So I’ll take my 
chance, and if I should get put down, why ’twas not fair that I 
should be put up, and it is what I ought to be, and serves me right 
into the bargain — ’ 

‘ Well, that’s the best sort of sense, your mother’s sense,’ said 
the Doctor, more affected than he liked to show. ‘ No wonder she 
eame to you in your dream, Norman, my boy, if you had come to 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 715 

such a resolution. I was half in hopes you had some such notion 
when I came upon you, on Far-view down.’ 

‘ I think that sky did it,’ said Norman, in a low voice ; ‘it made 
me think of her in a different way — and what you said too.’ 

1 What did I say ? I dont remember.’ 

But Norman could not repeat the words, and only murmured 
{ golden hills ’ — It was enough. 

‘ I see,’ said the Doctor, ‘ you had dwelt on the blank here, not 
taken home what it is to her.’ 

4 Aye’ — almost sobbed Norman, ‘ I never could before — that made 
me,’ after a long silence, ‘ and then I know how foolish I was, and how 
she would say it was wrong to make this fuss, when you did not like 
it, about my place, and it was not for the sake of my duty, but of 
ambition ; I knew that, but till I went to bed to-night, I could not 
tell whether I could make up my mind, so I would say nothing.’ 


CHAPTER XIII. 

4 Tlie days are sad, it is the Holy tide, 

When flowers have ceased to blow and birds to sir.f..’ 

F. Tennyson. 

It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and 
Norman was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the 
truth of his own assertion that he was worse without it ; for when 
this sole occupation of his mind was taken away, he drooped still 
more. He would willingly have shown his father that he was not 
discontented, but he was too entirely unnerved to be either cheer- 
ful or capable of entering with interest into any occupation. If he 
had been positively ill, the task would have been easier, but the 
low intermittent fever that hung about him, did not confine him to 
bed, only kept him lounging, listless and forlorn, through the weary 
day, not always able to go out with his father, and on Christmas- 
Day unfit even for Church. 

All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his 
home, still more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his 
sadness but his father’s kindness, which was a continual surprise to 
him. Dr. May was a parent who could not fail to be loved and 
honoured ; but, as a busy man, trusting all at home to his wife, he 
had only appeared to his children either as a merry playfellow, or 
as a stern paternal authority, not often in the intermediate light of 
guiding friend, or gentle guardian; and it affected Norman exceed- 
ingly to find himself, a tall school-boy, watched and soothed with 
motherly tenderness and affection; with complete comprehension 
of his feelings, and delicate care of them. His father’s solicitude 
and sympathy were round him day and nisFt and this in the midst 


116 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that Norman 
might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible feel* 
ings of grateful affection. 

How could his father know exactly what he would like — say the 
very things he was thinking — see that his depression was not wil- 
ful repining — find exactly what best soothed him ! He wondered, 
but he could not have said so to any one, only his eye brightened, 
and, as his sisters remarked, he never seemed half so uncomfortablo 
when papa was in the room. Indeed, the certainty that his father 
felt the sorrow as acutely as himself, was one reason of his open- 
ing to him. He could not feel that his brothers and sisters did so, 
for, outwardly, their habits were unaltered, their spirits not lowered, 
their relish for things around much the same as before, and this 
had given Norman a sense of isolation. With his father it was 
different. Norman knew he could never appreciate what the be- 
reavement was to him — he saw its traces in almost every word and 
look, and yet perceived that something sustained and consoled him, 
though not in the way of forgetfulness. Now and then Norman 
caught at what gave this comfort, and it might be hoped he would 
do so increasingly; though, on this Christmas-Day, Margaret felt 
very sad about him, as she watched him sitting over the fire, cow- 
ering with chilliness and headache, while every one was gone to 
Church, and saw that the reading of the service with her had been 
more of a trouble than a solace. 

She tried to think it bodily ailment, and strove hard not to pino 
for her mother, to comfort them both, and say the fond words of 
refreshing cheering pity that would have made all light to bear. 
Margaret’s home Christmas was so spent in caring for brother, 
father, and children, that she had hardly time to dwell on the sad 
change that had befallen herself. 

Christmas was a season that none of them knew well how to 
meet : Blanche was overheard saying to Mary, that she wished it 
would not come, and Mary, shaking her head, and answering that 
she was afraid that was naughty, but it was very tiresome to have 
no fun. Margaret did her best up-stairs, and Bichard down- 
stairs, by the help of prints and hymns, to make the children think 
of the true joy of Christmas, and in the evening their father gath 
ered them round, and told them the stories of the Shepherds an 
of the Wise Men, till Mary and Blanche agreed, as they went up 
to bed, that it had been a very happy evening. 

The next day Harry discomfited the school-room by bursting 
in with the news, that ‘ Louisa and Fanny Anderson were bearing 
down on the front door.’ Ethel and Flora were obliged to appear 
in the drawing-room, where they were greeted by two girls, rather 
older than themselves. A whole shower of inquiries for Dr. May 
for Margaret, and for the dear little baby, were first poured out 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 117 

then came hopes that Norman was well, as they had not seen him 
at Church yesterday. 

1 Thank you, he was kept at home by a bad headache, but it is 
better to-day.’ 

‘ We came to congratulate you on his success — we could not 
help it — it must have been such a pleasure to you.’ 

‘ That it wa-s ! ’ exclaimed Ethel, pleased at participation in 
her rejoicing. ‘ We were so surprised.’ 

Flora gave a glance of warning, but Ethel’s short-sighted eyes 
were beyond the range of correspondence, and Miss Anderson con- 
tinued. ‘ It must have been a delightful surprise. We could hard- 
ly believe it when Harvey came in and told us. Everyone thought 
Forder was sure, but they were all put out by the questions of gen- 
eral information — those were all Mr. Everard’s doing.’ 

‘ Mr. Everard was very much struck with Norman’s knowledge 
and scholarship too,’ said Flora. 

‘ So everyone says. It was all Mr. Everard’s doing, Miss Harri- 
son told mamma, but, for my part, I am very glad for the sake of 
Stoneborough; I like a town boy to be at the head.’ 

‘ Norman was sorry for Forder and Cheviot — ’ began Ethel. 
Flora tried to stop her, but Louisa Anderson caught at what sho 
said, and looked eagerly for more. ‘ He felt,’ said she, only think- 
ing of exalting her generous brother, ‘ as if it was hardly right, 
when they are so much his seniors, and he could scarcely enjoy it.’ 

‘ Ah ! that is just what people say,’ replied Lousia. ‘ But it 
must be very gratifying to you, and it makes him certain of the 
Randall scholarship too, I suppose. It is a great thing for him ! 
He must have worked very hard.’ 

‘ Yes, that he has,’ said Flora; ‘he is so fond of study, and 
that goes half way.’ 

‘ So is dear Harvey. How earnest he is over his books ! 
Mamma sometimes says, “ Now Harvey, dear, you’ll be quite stupi* 
tied, you’ll be ill ; I really shall get Hr. May to forbid you.” I 
suppose Norman is very busy too ; it is quite the fashion for boys 
not to be idle now.’ 

‘ Poor Norman can’t help it,’ said Ethel, piteously. ‘ Papa will 
not hear of his doing any Latin or Greek these whole holidays.’ 

‘ He thinks he will come to it better again for entire rest,’ said 
Flora, launching another look at her sister, which again fell short. 

A great deal of polite inquiry whether they were uneasy about him, 
followed, mixed with a little boasting of dear Harvey’s diligence. 

‘ By-the-bye, Ethel, it is you that are the great patroness of the 
wild Cocksmoor children — are not you ? ’ 

Ethel coloured, and mumbled, and Flora answered for her, 

* Richard and Ethel have been there once or twice. You know our 
tinder nursery-maid is a Cocksmoor girl.’ 

‘ Well, mamma said she could not think how Miss May could 


118 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


take one from tlience. The whole place is full of thieves, and dc 
you know, Bessie Boulder has lost her gold pencil-case.’ 

1 Has she ? ’ said Flora. 

1 And she had it on Sunday when she was teaching her class.’ 

I Oh ! ’ cried Ethel, vehemently ; ‘ surely she does not suspect 
any of those poor children ! ’ 

I I only know such a thing never happened at school before,’ 
said Fanny, ‘ and I shall never take anything valuable there again.’ 

1 But is she sure she lost it at school ? ’ 

1 O yes, quite certain. She will not accuse anyone, but it is not 
wmfortable. And how those children do behave at Church ! ’ 

1 Poor things ! they have been sadly neglected,’ said Flora. 

1 They are quite spoiling the rest, and they are such figures ! 
Why don’t you, at least, make them cut their hair ? You know it 
is the ru.e of the school.’ 

‘ I know, but half the girls in the first class wear it long.’ 

‘ Oh, yes, but those are the superior people, that one would not 
be strict with, and they dress it so nicely too. Now these are like 
little savages.’ 

£ Bichard thinks it might drive them away to insist at first,’ 
said Ethel ; 1 we will try to bring it about in time.’ 

1 Well, Mrs. Ledwich is nearly resolved to insist, so you had 
better be warned, Ethel. She cannot suffer such untidiness and 
rags to spoil the appearance of the school, and, I assure you, it is 
quite unpleasant to the teachers.’ 

‘ I wish they would give them all to me ! ’ said Ethel. 1 But I 
do hope Mrs. Ledwich will have patience with them, for they are 
only to be gained gently.’ 

The visitors took their leave, and the two sisters began exclaim- 
ing — Ethel at their dislike of her proteges , and Flora at what they 
had said of Norman. 1 And you, Ethel, how could you go and tell 
them we were surprised, and Norman thought it was hard on the 
other boys? They’ll have it all over the town that he got it 
unjustly, and knows it, as they say already it was partiality of 
Mr. Everard’s.’ 

1 0 no, no, they never can be so bad ! ’ cried Ethel; 1 they must 
have understod better that it was his noble humility and generosity.’ 

I They understand anything noble ! No indeed ! They think 
everyone like their own beautiful brother ! I knew what they came 
for all the time; they wanted to know whether Norman was able to 
work these holidays, and you told them the very thing they wanted 
to hear. How they will rejoice with that Harvey, and make sure 
of the Bandall ! ’ 

‘ 0 no, no ! ’ cried Ethel; 1 Norman must get that ! ’ 

I I don’t think he will,’ said Flora, ‘ losing all this time, while they 
are working. It cannot be helped, of course, but it is a great pity. 

1 [ almost wish he had not been put up at all, if it is to end ir, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 119 

this way,’ said Ethel. ‘ It is very provoking, and to have them 
triumphing as they will ! There’s no bearing it ! ’ 

‘ Norman, certainly, is not at all well, poor fellow,’ said Flora, 
‘ and I suppose he wants rest, but I wish papa would let him do what 
lie can. It would be much better for him than moping about as he 
is always doing now ; and the disappointment of losing his place 
will be grievous, though now he fancies he does not care for it.’ 

‘ I wonder when he will ever care for anything again. All I read 
and tell him only seems to teaze him, though he tries to thank me.’ 

‘ There is a strange apathy about him,’ said Flora, ‘ but I believe 
it is chiefly for want of exertion. I should like to rouse him if 
papa would let me ; I know I could, by telling him how these An- 
dersons are reckoning on his getting down. If he does, I shall be 
ready to run away, that I may never meet anyone here again.’ 

Ethel was very unhappy till she was able to pour all this trouble 
out to Margaret, and worked herself almost into crying about Nor- 
man’s being passed by that ‘ Harvey,’ and his sisters exulting, and 
papa being vexed, and Norman losing time and not caring. 

.‘ There you are wrong,’ said Margaret; ‘ Norman did care very 
much, and it was not till he had seen clearly that it was a matter 
of duty to do as papa thought right, and not agitate his mind about 
his chances of keeping up, that he could bear to give up his work , ’ 
and she told Ethel a little of what had passed. 

Ethel was much struck. ‘ But oh ! Margaret, it is very hard, 
just to have him put up for the sake of being put down, and pleas- 
ing the Andersons ! ’ 

‘ Dear Ethel, why should you mind so much about the Ander- 
sons ? May they not care about their brother as we do for ours ? ’ 

‘ Such a brother to care about ! ’ said Ethel. 

‘ But I suppose they may like him the best,’ said Margaret, smiling. 

‘ I suppose they do,’ said Ethel, grudgingly ; ‘ but still I cannot 
bear to see Norman doing nothing, and know Harvey Anderson 
will beat him.’ 

1 Surely you had rather he did nothing than made himself ill.’ 

‘ To be sure, but I wish it wasn’t so.’ 

‘Yes; but, Ethel, whose doing is his getting into this state? ’ 

Ethel looked grave. ‘ It was wrong of me,’ said she, ‘ but then 
papa is not sure that Greek would hurt him.’ 

‘ Not sure, but he thinks it not wise to run the risk. But, Ethel, 
dear, why are you so bent on his being Dux at all costs ? ’ 

‘It would be horrid if he was not.’ 

‘ Don’t you remember you used to say that outward praise or 
honour was not to be cared for as long as one did one’s duty, and 
that it might be a temptation? ’ 

‘Yes, I know I did,’ said Ethel, faltering, ‘ but that was for one’s self.’ 

‘ It is harder, I think, to feel so about those we care for,’ said Mar- 
garet ; ‘ but after all, this is just what will show whether our pride 


120 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


in Norman is tlie right true loving pride, or whether it is cnly the 
family vanity of triumphing over the Andersons.’ 

Ethel hung her head. 1 There’s some of that,’ she said , 1 hut it is not 
all. No — I don’t want to triumph over them, nobody would do that.’ 

‘ Not outwardly, perhaps, hut in their hearts.’ 

‘ I can’t tell,’ said Ethel , 1 but it is the being triumphed over 
that I cannot bear.’ 

‘ Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us,’ said Margaret. 
It is teaching us, “ Whosoever exalteth himself, shall be abased, 
and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.” ’ 

Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, 
And you think he will really be put down ? ’ 

Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she 
kept her patience, and answered, 1 1 cannot guess, Ethel, but I’ll 
tell you one thing — I think there’s much more chance if he comes 
to his work fresh and vigorous after a rest, than if he went on dull- 
ing himself with it all this time.’ 

With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to 
think as little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard 
to Cocksmoor turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught 
some more Sunday-school children by the help of Margaret’s broth, 
but it was up-hill work ; the servants did not like such guests in the 
kitchen, and they were still less welcome at school. 

‘ What do you think I heard, Ethel ? ’ said Flora the next Sunday 
as they joined each other in the walk from School to Church ; ‘ I 
heard Miss Graves say to Miss Boulder, u I declare I must remon- 
strate. 1 undertook to instruct a national, not a ragged school and 
then Miss Boulder shook out her fine watered silk, and said, “ It posi- 
tively is improper to place ladies in contact with such squalid objects.” ’ 

I Ladies ! ’ cried Ethel. 1 A stationer’s daughter and a banker’s 
clerk’s. Why do they come to teach at school at all ? ’ 

‘ Because our example makes it genteel,’ said Flora. 

I I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel.’ 

‘ I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping be- 
hind, and pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it ! 0 Ethel ! ’ 

‘ Which was it ! ’ 

1 That merry Irish-looking child. I don’t know her name.’ 

‘ Oh ! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M’Carthy. I am 
bo glad you did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed.’ 

‘ I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station 
and can do anything — they are struggling to be ladies.’ 

1 But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora ; here we 
are almost at the Churchyard.’ 

The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London 
surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk 
much to Margaret of old times, and the days of his courtship, when it 
had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should 


TILE DAISY CHAIN. 


Vz\ 


marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degroe of 
liking, but ‘ Mat ’ had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended 
by never marrying at all. This the Doctor, as well as his daughters, 
believed was for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were 
a good deal excited about his coming, almost as much on his own 
account, as because they considered him as the abiter of Margaret’s 
fate. He only came in time for a seven o’clock dinner, and Margaret 
did not see him that night, but heard enough from her sisters, when 
they came up to tell the history of their guest, and of the first set 
dinner when Flora had acted as lady of the house. The dinner it ap- 
peared had gone off very well. Flora had managed admirably, and the 
only mishap was some awkward carving of Ethel’s which had caused 
the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the guest, Flora said 
he was very good-looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly pronounced, 

‘ I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnott instead.’ 

‘ 1 can’t think why,’ said Flora. ‘ 1 never saw a person of 
pleasanter manners.’ 

1 Did they talk of old times ? ’ said Margaret. 

‘ No,’ said Ethel; ‘ that was the thing.’ 

1 You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle 
of dinner,’ said Flora. 

“ No,’ again said Ethel ; ‘ but papa has a way — don’t you know, 
Margaret, how one can tell in a moment if it is company talk.’ 

‘ What was the conversation about ? ’ said Margaret. 

1 They talked over some of their old fellow-students,’ said Flora. 

‘Yes,’ said Ethel ; ‘ and then when papa told him that beautiful 
history of Dr. Spencer going to take care of those poor emigrants in 
the fever, what do you think he said ? “Yes, Spencer was always 
doing extravagant things.” Fancy that to papa, who can hardly 
speak of it without having to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs 
to hear of Dr. Spencer.’ 

‘ And what did he say ? ’ 

‘ Nothing ; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that 
sort of thing, and it was all company talk after that.’ 

‘ Most entertaining in its kind,’ said Flora : ‘ but — oh Norman ! ’ 
as he entered — ‘ why they are not out of the dining-room yet ! ’ 

‘ No ; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely 
will not come for an hour.’ 

‘ Are you going to bed ? ’ 

‘ Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so 
after tea.’ 

‘ Then sit down there, and I’ll go and make some, and let it come 
up with Margaret’s. Come, Ethel. Good night, Norman. Is your 
head aching to-night ? ’ 

‘ Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room.’ 

‘ It would have been wiser not to have gone in,’ said Flora, Ieav* 
ing the room. 


122 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 It was not tlie dinner, but the man,’ said Norman. ‘ It is in- 
comprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I’d as 
soon have Harvey Anderson for a friend ! ’ 

1 You are like me,’ said Ethel, 1 in being glad that he is not our 
uncle.’ 

1 He presume to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora ! ’ cried 
Norman, indignantly. 

‘ Why, what is the matter with him ? ’ asked Margaret. 1 1 can’t 
find much ground for Ethel’s dislike, and Flora is pleased.’ 

1 She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel,’ said Nor- 
man. ‘ I could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital 
patients. I am sure he thinks poor people nothing but a study, and 
rich ones nothing but a profit. And his half sneers ! Hut what 
I hated most was his way of avoiding discussions. When he saw he 
had said what would not go down with papa, he did not honestly 
stand iip to the point, and argue it out, but seemed to have no mini 
of his own, and to be only talking to please papa — but not knowing 
how to do it. He understand my father indeed ! ’ 

Norman’s indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was 
much entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was 
Hichard’s, when he came in late to wish her good night, after he 
had been attending on Sir Matthew’s examination of his father’s 
arm. He did nothing but admire the surgeon’s delicacy of touch 
and understanding of the case, his view agreeing much better with 
Dr. May’s own than with Mr. Ward’s. Dr. May had never been 
entirely satisfied with the present mode of treatment, and Hichard 
was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to Sir Matthew, that 
he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and less painful 
if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford time for be- 
ing longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made, 
likely soon to reliefs the pain, to be less tedious and troublesome, 
and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest. 
In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person 
who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn 
that Hichard thought Sir Matthew very clever and sensible, and 
certain to understand her case. Her last visitor was her father : 

‘ Asleep, Margaret? I thought I had better go to Norman first in 
case he should be awake.’ 

1 Was he?’ 

1 Yes, but his pulse is better to-night. He was lying awake to 
hear what Fleet thought of me. I suppose Hichard told you.’ 

i Yes, dear papa, what a comfort it is ! ’ 

1 Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark ! Hut I would 
not be there for something. I never saw a man so altered. How- 
ever, if he can only do for you as well — but it is of no use talking 
about it. I may trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear ? ’ 

‘ I am trying — indeed I am, dear papa. If you could help being 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


123 


anxious for me — though I know it is worse for you, for I only havo 
to lie still, and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking 
how well off I am, able to enjoy so much, and be employed all day 
long. It is nothing to compare with that poor girl you told me of, 
and you need not be unhappy for me. I have some verses to say 
over to myself to-night : 

“ O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will, 

I will lie still, 

I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm 
And break the charm 

That lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast 
In perfect rest.” 

Is not that comfortable ? ’ 

‘ My child — my dear child — I will say no more, lest I should 
break your sweet peace with my impatience. I will strive for the 
same temper, my Margaret. Bless you, dearest, good-night. 7 

After a night spent in waking intervals of such thoughts, Mar- 
garet found the ordinary morning, and the talk she could not escape, 
somewhat oppressive. Her brothers and sisters disturbed her by 
their open expressions of hope and anxiety ; she dreaded to have 
the balance of tranquillity overset ; and then blamed herself for sel- 
fishness in not being as ready to attend to them as usual. Ethel 
and Norman came up after breakfast, their aversion by no means 
decreased by further acquaintance. Ethel was highly indignant at 
the tone in which he had exclaimed, ‘ What, May, have you one as 
young as this ? ’ on discovering the existence of the baby ; and when 
Norman observed that was not so atrocious either, she proceeded, 
‘ You did not hear the contemptuous compassionate tone when he 
asked papa what he meant to do with all these boys.’ 

1 I’m glad he has not to settle,’ said Norman. 

1 Papa said Harry was to be a sailor, and he said it was a good 
way to save expenses of education — a good thing.’ 

‘ No doubt,’ said Norman, ‘ he thinks papa only wants to get rid 
of us, or if not, that it is an amiable weakness.’ 

1 But I can’t see anything so shocking in this,’ said Margaret. 

‘ It is not the words,’ said Norman , 1 the look and tone convey it; 
but there are different opinions. Flora is quite smitten with him, 
he talks so politely to her.’ 

1 And Blanche ! ’ said Ethel. 1 The little affected pussy-cat made 
a set at him, bridled and talked in her mincing voice, with all her 
airs, and made him take a great deal of notice of her.’ 

Nurse here came to prepare for the surgeon’s visit. 

It was ove*, and Margaret awaited the judgment. Sir Matthew 
had spoken hopefully to her, but she feared to fasten hopes on what 
might have no meaning, and could rely on nothing, till she had seen 
her father, who never kept back his geniune opinion, and would 
least of all from her. She found her spirits too much agitated tc 


124 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


talk to lier sisters, and quietly begged them to let lier be quite alone 
till the consultation was over, and she lay trying to prepare herself 
to submit thankfully, whether she might be bidden to resign her- 
self to helplessness, or to let her mind open once more to visions of 
joyous usefulness. Every step she hoped would prove to be her 
father’s approach, and the longest hour of her life was that before 
he entered her room. His face said that the tidings were good, and 
yet she could not ask. 

‘ Well, Margaret, I am glad we had him down. He thinks y^u 
may get about again, though it may be a long time first.’ 

‘ Hoes he — oh papa ! ’ and the colour spread over her face as 
she squeezed his hand very fast. 

1 He has known the use of the limbs return almost suddenly 
after even a year or two,’ and Hr. May gave her the grounds of the 
opinion, and an account of other like cases, which he said had con- 
vinced him, 1 though, my poor child,’ he said, ‘ I feared the harm I 
had done you was irremediable, but thanks — .’ He turned away his 
face, and the clasp of their hands spoke the rest. 

Presently he told Margaret that she was no longer to be kept 
prostrate, but she was to do exactly as was most comfortable to her, 
avoiding nothing but fatigue. She might be lifted to the sofa the next 
day, and if that agreed with her, she might be carried down stairs. 

This, in itself, after she had been confined to her bed for three 
months, was a release from captivity, and all the brothers and sisters 
rejoiced as if she was actually on her feet again. Richard betook 
himself to constructing a reading-frame for the sofa ; Harry tor- 
mented Miss Winter by insisting on a holiday for the others, and 
gained the day by an appeal to his father; then declared he should 
go and tell Mr. Wilmot the good news; and Norman, quite enli- 
vened, took up his hat, and said he would come too. 

In all his joy, however, Hr. May could not cease bewailing the 
alteration in his old friend, and spent half the evening in telling 
Margaret how different he had once been, in terms little less measured 
than Ethel’s : ‘ I never saw such a change. Mat Fleet was one of 
the most warm, open-hearted fellows in the world, up to anything. 
I can hardly believe he is the same — turned into a mere machine, 
with a moving spring of self-interest ! I don’t believe he cares a 
rush for any living thing ! Except for your sake, Margaret, I wish 
I had never seen him again, and only remembered him as he was at 
Edinburgh, as I remember dear old Spencer. It is a grievous thing ! 
Ruined entirely ! No doubt that London life must be trying — the 
constant change and bewilderments of patients preventing much in- 
dividual care and interest. It must be very hardening. No family 
ties either, nothing to look to but pushing his way. Yes ! there’s 
great excuse for poor Mat. I never knew fully till now the blessing 
it was that your dear mother w T as willing to take me so early, and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 125 

that this place was open to me with all its home connexions and in* 
terests. I am glad I never had anything to do with London ! ’ 

And when he was alone with Norman, he could not help saying, 
1 Norman, my boy, I’m more glad than ever you yielded to me about 
your Greek these holidays, and for the reason you did. Take care 
the love of rising and pushing never gets hold of you; there’s 
nothing that faster changes a man from his better self.’ 

Meanwhile, Sir Matthew Fleet had met another old college friend 
in London, and was answering his inquiries for the Lick May of 
ancient times. 

‘ Poor May ! I never saw a man so thrown away. With his 
talent and acuteness, he might be the most eminent man of his day, 
if he had only known how to use them. But he was always the 
same careless soft-hearted fellow, never knowing how to do himself 
any good, and he is the same still, not a day older nor wiser. It 
was a fatal thing for him that there was that country practice ready 
for him to step into, and even of that he does not make as good a 
thing as he might. Of course he married early, and there he is, 
left a widower with a house full of children — screaming babies, and 
great tall sons growing up, and he without a notion what he shall 
do with them, as heedless as ever — saving 'nothing of course. I 
always knew it was what he would come to, if he would persist in 
burying himself in that wretched little country town, but I hardly 
thought, after all he has gone through, to find him such a mere boy 
still. And yet he is one of the cleverest men I ever met — with 
such talent, and such thorough knowledge of his profession, that it 
does one good to hear him talk. Poor May ! I am sorry for him, 
lie might have been anything, but that early marriage and country 
practice were the ruin of him.’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 


‘ To thee, dear maid, each kindly wile 
Was known that elder sisters know, 

To check the unseasonable smile 

With warning hand and serious brow. 

From dream to dream with her to rove, 

Like fairy nurse with hermit child ; 

Teach her to think, to pray, to love, 

Make grief less bitter, joy less wild.’ 

Lines on a monument at Litchfield. 

Sir Matthew Fleet’s visit seemed like a turning-point with the May 
family, rousing and giving them revived hopes. Norman began to 
shake off his extreme languor and depression, the Loctor was relieved 
from much of the wearing suffering from his hurt, and his despon- 
dency as to Margaret’s ultimate recovery had been driven away. 
The experiment of taking her uj succeeded so well, that on Sunday 


126 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


slie was fully attired, * fit to receive company.’ As she lay on the 
sofa there seemed an advance toward recovery. Much sweet co- 
quetry was expended in trying to look her best for her father ; and 
her best was very well, for though the brilliant bloom of health was 
gone, her cheeks had not lost their pretty rounded contour, and 
still had some rosiness, while her large bright blue eyes smiled and 
sparkled. A screen shut out the rest of the room, making a sort 
of little parlour round the fire, where sundry of the family were 
visiting her after coming home from Church in the afternoon. 
Ethel was in a vehement state of indignation at what had that day 
happened at school. ‘ Did you ever hear anything like it ! When 
the point was, to teach the poor things to be Christians, to turn 
them back, because their hair was not regulation length ! ’ 

‘ Wliat’s that ! Who did? ’ said Dr. May, coming in from his 
own room, where he had heard a few words. 

1 Mrs. Ledwich. She sent back three of the Cocksmoor children 
this morning. It seems she warned them last Sunday without 
saying a word to us.’ 

‘ Sent them back from Church,’ said the Doctor. 

1 Not exactly from Church,’ said Margaret. 

1 It is the same in effect,’ said Ethel, ‘ to turn them from school , 
for if they did try to go alone, the pew-openers would drive them out.’ 

‘It is a wretched state of things ! ’ said Dr. May, who never 
wanted much provocation to begin storming about parish affairs. 

‘ When I am churchwarden again, I’ll see what can be done about 
the seats ; but it’s no sort of use, while Ramsden goes on as he does.-’ 

‘ Now my poor children are done for ! ’ said Ethel. ‘ They will 
never come again. And it’s horrid, papa ; there are lots of town 
children who wear immense long plaits of hair, and Mrs. Ledwich 
never interferes with them. It is entirely to drive the poor Cocks* 
moor ones away — for nothing else, and all out of Fanny Anderson’s 
chatter.’ 

‘ Ethel, my dear,’ said Margaret, pleadingly. 

1 Didn’t I tell you, Margaret, how, as soon as Flora knew what 
Mrs. Ledwich was going to do, she went and told her this was the 
children’s only chance, and if we affronted them for a trifle, there 
would be no hope of getting them back. She said she was sorry, if 
we were interested for them, but rules must not be broken ; and 
when Flora spoke of all who do wear long hair unmolested, she 
shuffled and said, for the sake of the teachers, as well as the other 
children, rags and dirt could not be allowed ; and then she brought 
up the old story of Miss Boulder’s pencil, though she has found it 
again, and ended by saying Fanny Anderson told her it was a serious 
annoyance to the teachers, and she was sure we should agree with 
her, that something was due to voluntary assistants and subscribers.’ 

‘ I am afraid there has been a regular set at them,’ said Mar- 
garet, ‘ and perhaps they are troublesome, poor things.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


127 


£ As if school keeping were for luxury ! ’ said Dr. May. ‘ It is 
the worst thing I have heard of Mrs. Ledwich yet ! One’s blood 
boils to think of those poor children being cast otf because our fine 
young ladies are too grand to teach them ! The Clergyman leaving 
his work to a set of conceited women, and they turning their backs 
on ignorance, when it comes to their door. Voluntary subscribers, 
indeed ! I’ve a great mind I’ll be one no longer.’ 

‘ Oh ! papa, that would not be fair — ’ began Ethel ; but Margaret 
knew he would not act on this, squeezed her hand, and silenced her. 

‘ One thing I’ve said, and I’ll hold to it,’ continued Dr. May ; 
‘ if they outvote Wilmot again in your Ladies’ Committee, I’ll have 
no more to do with them, as sure as my name’s Dick May. It is a 
scandal the way things are done here ! ’ 

‘ Papa,’ said Richard, who had all the time been standing silent, 
‘ Ethel and I have been thinking, if you approved, whether we 
could not do something towards teaching the Cocksmoor children, 
and breaking them in for the Sunday school.’ 

What a bound Ethel’s heart gave, and how full of congratula- 
tion and sympathy was the pressure of Margaret’s hand ! 

‘ What did you think of doing ?’ said the Doctor. 

•Ethel burnt to reply, but her sister’s hand admonished her to 
remember her compact. Richard answered, ‘ We thought of trying 
to get a room, and going perhaps once or twice a week to give them 
a little teaching. It would be little enough, but it might do some- 
thing towards civilizing them, and making them wish for more.’ 

‘ How do you propose to get a room ? ’ 

‘I have reconnoitred, and I think I know a cottage with a 
tolerable kitchen, which I dare say we might hire for -an afternoon 
for sixpence.’ 

‘ Ethel, unable to bear it any longer, threw herself forward, and 
sitting on the ground at her father’s feet, exclaimed, ‘ 0 papa 
papa ! do say we may ! ’ 

‘ What’s all this about ? ’ said the Doctor, surprised. 

1 Oh ! you don’t know how I have thought of it day and night 
these two months ! ’ 

1 What ! Ethel, have a fancy for two whole months, and the whole 
house not hear of it ! ’ said her father, with a rather provoking look 
of incredulity. 

‘Richard was afraid of bothering you, and wouldn’t let me. 
But do speak, papa. May we ? ’ 

‘ I don’t see any objection.’ 

She clasped her hands in ecstacy. ‘ Thank you ! thank you, 
papa ! 0 Ritchie ! Oh ! Margaret \ ’ cried she, in a breathless 

voice of transport. 

1 You have worked yourself up to a fine pass,’ said the Doctor, 
patting the agitated girl fondly as she leant against his knee. ‘Re 
member, slow and steady.’ 


128 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 I’ve got Richard to help me,’ said Ethel. 

1 Sufficient guarantee,’ said her father, smiling archly as he looted 
up to his son, whose fair face had coloured deep red. 4 You will 
keep the Unready in order, Ritchie.’ 

4 He does,’ said Margaret ; 4 he has taken her education into his 
hands, and I really believe he has taught her to hold up her frock 
and stick in pins.’ 

4 And to know her right hand from her left, Eh, Ethel? Well, 
you deserve some credit, then. Suppose we ask Mr. Wilmot to tea, 
and talk it over.’ 

4 0 thank you, papa ! When shall it be ? To-morrow ? ’ 

4 Yes, if you like, I have to go to the town-council meeting 
and am not going into the country, so I shall be in rarly.’ 

4 Thank you. 0 how very nice ! ’ 

4 And what about cost ? Do you expect to rob me ? ’ 

4 If you would help us,’ said Ethel, with an odd shy manner ; 

1 we meant to make what we have go as far as may be, but mine is 
only fifteen and sixpence.’ 

4 Well, you must make interest with Margaret for the turn-out 
of my pocket to-morrow.’ 

4 Thank you, we are very much obliged,’ said the brother and 
sister, earnestly, 4 that is more than we expected.’ 

4 Ha ! don’t thank too soon. Suppose to-morrow should be a 
blank day.’ 

4 Oh, it won’t ! ’ said Ethel. 4 1 shall tell Norman to make you 
go to paying people.’ 

4 There’s avarice ! ’ said the Doctor. 4 But look you here, Ethel, 
if you’ll take my advice, you’ll make your bargain for Tuesday. I 
have a note appointing me to call at Abbotstokc Grange on Mr. 
Rivers, at twelve o’clock, on Tuesday. What do you think of that, 
Ethel ? An old banker, rich enough for his daughter to curl her 
hair in bank notes. If I were you, I’d make a bargain for him.’ 

4 If he had nothing the mj.tter with him, and I only got one 
guinea out of him ! ’ 

4 Prudence ! Well, it may be wiser.’ 

Ethel ran up to her room, hardly able to believe that the mighty 
proposal was made ; and it had been so readily granted, that it seemed 
as if Richard’s caution had been vain in making such a delay, that 
even Margaret had begun to fear that the street of by-and-by was 
leading to the house of never. Now, however, it was plain that ho 
had been wise. Opportunity was everything ; at another moment, 
their father might have been harassed and oppressed, and unable 
to give his mind to concerns, which now he could think of with 
interest, and Richard could not have caught a more favorable con- 
juncture. 

Ethel was in a wild state of felicity all that evening and the next 
lay, very unlike her brother, who, dismayed at the open step ha 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


129 


had taken, shrank into himself, and in his shyness dreaded the dis* 
eussion in the evening, and would almost have been relieved, if 
Mr. Wilmot had been unable to accept the invitation. So quiet and 
grave was he, that Ethel could not get him to talk over the matter 
at all with her, and she was obliged to bestow all lier trans- 
ports and grand projects on Flora or Margaret, when she could gain 
their ears, besides conning them over to herself, as an accompaniment 
to her lessons, by which means she tried Miss Winter’s patience 
almost beyond measure. But she cared not — she saw a gathering 
school and rising Church, which eclipsed all thoughts of present 
inattentions and gaucheries. She monopolized Margaret in the 
twilight, and rhapsodized to her heart’s content, talking faster and 
faster, and looking more and more excited. Margaret began to 
feel a little overwhelmed, and while answering ‘ yes ’ at intervals, 
was considering whether Ethel had not been flying about in an absent 
inconsiderate mood all day, and whether it would seem unkind 
to damp her ardour, by giving her a hint that she was relaxing her 
guard over herself. Before Margaret had steeled herself, Ethel was 
talking of a story she had read, of a place something like Cocksmoor. 
Margaret was not ready with her recollection, and Ethel, saying it 
was in a magazine in the drawing-room chiffoniere, declared she 
would fetch it. 

Margaret knew what it was to expect her visitors to return ‘ in 
one moment,’ and with a ‘ now or never ’ feeling she began, 1 Ethel 
dear, wait,’ but Ethel was too impetuous to attend. ‘ I’ll be back 
in a twinkling,’ she called out, and down she flew, in her speed 
whisking away, without seeing it, the basket with Margaret’s knitting 
and all her notes and papers, which lay scattered on the floor far out 
of reach, vexing Margaret at first, and then making her grieve at 
her own impatient feeling. 

Ethel was soon in the drawing-room, but the right number of the 
magazine was not quickly forthcoming,, and in searching she became 
embarked in another story. Just then, Aubrey, whose stout legs 
were apt to carry him into every part of the house where he was 
neither expected nor wanted, marched in at the open door, trying 
by dint of vehement gestures to make her understand, in his imper- 
fect speech, something that he wanted. Very particularly trouble- 
some she thought him, more especially as she could not make him 
out, otherwise than he wanted her to do something with the 
newspaper and the fire. She made a boat for him with an old 
newspaper, a very hasty and frail performance, and told him to sail 
it on the carpet, and be Mr. Ernescliffe going away; and she 
thought him thus safely disposed of. Keturning to her book and 
her search, with her face to the cupboard, and her book held up to 
catch the light, she was soon lost in her story, and thought of 
nothing more till suddenly roused by her father’s voice in the hall, 
loud and peremptory with alarm, £ Aubrey ! put that down ! ’ She 


130 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


looked, and beheld Aubrey brandishing a great flaming paper — he 
dropped it at the exclamation — it fell burning on the carpet. 
Aubrey’s white pinafore ! Ethel was springing up, but in her 
cramped, twisted position, she could not do so quickly, and even as 
he called, her father strode by her, snatched at Aubrey’s merino 
frock, which he crushed over the scarcely lighted pinafore, and 
trampled out the flaming paper with his foot. It was a moment of 
dreadful fright, but the next assured them that no harm was done. 

‘ Ethel ! ’ cried the Doctor, ‘ arc you mad ? What were you 
thinking of ? ’ 

Aubrey, here recollecting himself enough to be frightened at his 
father’s voice and manner, burst into loud cries ; the Doctor pressed 
him closer on his breast, caressed and soothed him. Ethel stood 
by, pale and transfixed with horror. Her father was more angry 
with her, than she had ever seen him, and with reason, as she knew, 
as she smelt the singeing, and saw a large burnt hole in Aubrey’s 
pinafore, while the front of his frock was scorched and brown. 
Dr. May’s words were not needed, ‘ What could make you let him ? ’ 

‘ 1 didn’t see — ’ she faultered. 

‘ Didn’t see ! Didn’t look, didn’t think, didn’t care ! That’s it, 
Ethel. ’Tis very hard one can’t trust you in a room with the 
child any more than the baby herself. His frock perfect tinder. 
He would have been burnt to a cinder, if I had not come in ! ’ 

Aubrey roared afresh, and Dr. May, kissing and comforting him, 
gathered him up under his left arm, and carried him away, looking 
back at the door to say, ‘ There’s no bearing it ! I’ll put a stop to 
all schools and Greek, if it is to lead to this, and make you good for 
nothing ! ’ 

Ethel was too much terrified to know where she was, or anything, 
but that she had let her little brother run into fearful peril, and 
grievously angered her father ; she was afraid to follow him, and 
stood still, annihilated, and in despair, till roused by his return , 
then, with a stifled sob, she exclaimed, ‘ Oh, papa ! ’ and could get 
no further for a gush of tears. 

Dut the anger of the shock of terror was over, and Dr. May was 
sorry for her tears, though still he could not but manifest some 
displeasure. ‘ Yes, Ethel,’ he said, ‘ it was a frightful thing,’ and 
he could not but shudder again. ‘ One moment later ! It is an 
escape to be for ever thankful for — poor little fellow — but Ethel, 
Ethel, do let it be a warning to you.’ 

‘ 0, I hope — I’ll try — ’ sobbed Ethel. 

‘ You have said you would try before.’ 

4 1 know I have,’ said Ethel, choked. ‘ If I could but— 

‘Poor child,’ said Dr. May, sadly; then looking earnestly at 
her, ‘ Ethel, my dear, I am afraid of its being with you as — as it 
has been with me ; ’ he spoke very low, and drew her close to him. 

I grew up, thinking my inbred liecdlcssness a sort of grace, so to 


THE DAISr CHAIN. 


131 


say. rather manly — the reverse of finikin. I was spoilt as a boy 
and my Maggie carried on the spoiling, by never letting me feel its 
effects. By the time I had sense enough to regret this as a fault, 
I had grown too old for changing of ingrain, long-nurtured habits — 
perhaps I never wished it really. You have seen,’ and his voice was 
nearly inaudible, ‘ what my carelessness has come to — let that suffice 
at least, as a lesson that may spare you — what your father must 
feel as long as he lives.’ 

He pressed his hand tightly on her shoulder, and left her, with- 
out letting her see his face. Shocked and bewildered, she hurried 
up-stairs to Margaret. She threw herself on her knees, felt her 
arms round her, and heard her kind soothing, and then, in broken 
words, told how dreadful it had been, and how kind papa had been, 
and what he had said, which was now the uppermost thought. ‘ Oh ! 
Margaret, Margaret, how very terrible it is ! And does papa really 
think so % ’ 

‘ 1 believe he does,’ whispered Margaret. 

‘ How can he, can he bear it !’ said Ethel, clasping her hands. 
1 0 it is enough to kill one — I can’t think why it did not ! ’ 

‘ He bears it,’ said Margaret, ‘ because he is so very good, that 
help and comfort do come to him. Dear papa ! He bears up be- 
cause it is right, and for our sakes, and he has a sort of rest in that 
perfect love they had for each other. He knows how she would 
wish him to cheer up and look to the end, and support and comfort 
are given to him, I know they are ; but oh, Ethel ! it does make 
one tremble and shrink, to think what he has been going through 
this autumn, especially when I hear him moving about late at night, 
and now and then comes a heavy groan — whenever any especial 
care has been on his mind.’ 

Ethel was in great distress. ‘ To have grieved him again ! ’ said 
she, 1 and just as he seemed better and brighter ! Everything I do 
turns out wrong, and always will ; I can’t do anything well by any 
chance.’ 

‘ Yes you can, when you mind what you are about.’ 

1 But I never can — I’m like him, everyone says so, and he says 
the heedlessness is ingrain, and can’t be got rid of.’ 

1 Ethel, I don’t really think he could have told you so.’ 

1 I’m sure he said ingrain.’ 

‘Well, I suppose it is part of his nature, and that you have in- 
herited it, but — ’ Margaret paused — and Ethel exclaimed, 

‘ He said his was long-nurtured ; yes, Margaret, you guessed 
right, and he said he could not change it, and no more can I.’ 

1 Surely, Ethel, you have not had so many years. You are 
fifteen instead of forty-six, and it is more a woman’s work than a 
man’s to be careful. You need not begin to despair. You were 
growing much better ; Richard said so, and so did Miss Winter.’ 

‘ What’s the use of it, if in one moment it is as bad as over ? 


132 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


And to-day, of all days in the year, just when papa had been at 
very, very kind, and given me more than I asked.’ 

‘ Do you know, Ethel, I was thinking whether dear mamma 
would not say that was the reason. You were so happy, that per 
haps you were thrown off your guard.’ 

1 1 should not wonder if that was it,-’ said Ethel, thoughtfully. 

‘ You know it was a sort of probation that Richard put me on. I 
was to learn to be steady before he spoke to papa, and now it seemed 
to be all settled and right, and perhaps I forgot I was to be careful 
still.’ 

‘ I think it was something of the kind. I was a little afraid 
before, and I wish I had tried to caution you, but I did not like 
to seem unkind.’ 

1 1 wish you had,’ said Ethel. 1 Dear little Aubrey ! Oh ! if 
papa had not been there ! And I cannot think how, as it was, he 
could contrive to put the fire out, with his one hand, and not hurt 
himself. Margaret, it was terrible. How could I mind so little ! 
Did you see how his frock was singed ? ’ 

1 Yes, papa showed it to me. How can we be thankful enough ! 
One thing I hope, that Aubrey was well frightened, poor little boy.’ 

‘ I know ! I see now ! ’ cried Ethel , 1 he must have wanted me 
to make the fire blaze up, as Richard did one evening when we 
came in and found it low ; I remember Aubrey clapping his hands 
and shouting at the flame ; but my head was in that unhappy story, 
and I never had sense to put the things together, and reflect that 
he would try to do it himself. I only wanted to get him out of my 
way, dear little fellow. 0 ! dear, how bad it was of me ! All from 
being uplifted, and my head turned, as it used to be when we were 
happier. Oh ! I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming!’ 

Ethel sat for a long time with her head hidden in Margaret’s 
pillows, and her hand clasped by her good elder sister. At last she 
looked up and said, 1 0 Margaret, I am so unhappy. I see the 
whole meaning of it now. Do you not ? When papa gave his con- 
sent at last, I was pleased and set up, and proud of my plans. I 
never recollected what a silly, foolish girl I am, and how unfit. I 
thought Mr. Wilmot would think great things of it — it was all 
wrong and self-satisfied. I never prayed at all that it might turn 
out well, and so now it won’t.’ 

1 Dearest Ethel, I don’t see that. Perhaps it will do all the 
better for your being humbled about it now. If you were wild and 
high flying, it would never go right.’ 

4 It’s hope is in Richard,’ said Ethel. 

1 So it is,’ said Margaret. 

‘ I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming to-night,’ said Ethel again. 

It would serve me right if papa were to say nothing about it.’ 

Ethel lingered with her sister till Harry and Mary came up 
with Margaret’s tea, and summoned her, and she crept down stairs, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


133 


and entered the room so quietly, that she was hardly perceived be 
hind her boisterous brother. She knew her eyes were in no pre- 
sentable state, and cast them down, and shrank back as Mr. Wilmot 
shook her hand and greeted her kindly. 

Mr. Wilmot had been wont to come to tea, whenever he had 
anything to say to Dr. or Mrs. May, which was about once in ten 01 
twelve days. He was Mary’s godfather, and their most intimate 
friend in the town, and he had often been with them, both as friend 
and Clergyman, through their trouble — no later than Christmas- 
Day, he had come to bring the feast of that day to Margaret in her 
sick room. Indeed, it had been chiefly for the sake of the Mays 
that he had resolved to spend the holidays at Stoneborough taking 
the care of Abbotstoke, while his brother, the Vicar, went to visit 
their father. This was, however, the first time he had come in his 
old familiar way to spend an evening, and there was something in 
the resumption of former habits that painfully marked the change. 

Ethel, on coming in, found Flora making tea, her father leaning 
back in his great chair in silence, Richard diligently cutting bread, 
and Blanche sitting on Mr. Wilmot’s knee, chatting fast and con- 
fidentially. Flora made Harry dispense the cups, and called every- 
one to their places ; Ethel timidly glanced at her father’s face, as 
he rose and came into the light. She thought the lines and hollows 
were more marked than ever, and that he looked fatigued and 
mournful, and she felt cut to the heart ; but he began to exert him- 
self, and to make conversation, not, however, about Cocksmoor, but 
asking Mr. Wilmot what his brother thought of his new squire, Mr. 
Rivers. 

1 He likes him very much,’ said Mr. Wilmot. ‘ He is a very 
pleasing person, particularly kind-hearted and gentle, and likely to 
do a great deal for the parish. They have been giving away beef 
and blankets at a great rate this Christmas.’ 

i What family is there ? ’ asked Flora. 

1 One daughter, about Ethel’s age, is there with her governess. 
He has been twice married, and the first wife left a son, who is in 
the dragoons, I believe. This girl’s mother was Lord Cosham’s 
daughter.’ 

So the talk lingered on, without much interest or life. It was 
rather keeping from saying nothing than conversation, and no one 
was without the sensation that she was missing, round whom all had 
been free and joyous — not that she had been wont to speak much 
herself, oat nothing would go on smoothly or easily without her. 
So long did this last, that Ethel began to think her father meant to 
punish her by not beginning the subject that night, and though she 
owned that she deserved it, she could not help being very much 
disappointed. 

At length, however, her father began : ‘We wanted you to talk 
over a scheme that these young ones have been concocting. You 


134 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


see, I am obliged to keep Rickard at home this next term — it won't 
do to have no one in the house to carry poor Margaret. We can’t 
do without him any way, so he and Ethel have a scheme of seeing 
what can be done for that wretched place, Cocksmoor.’ 

‘ Indeed ! ’ said Mr. Wilmot, brightening and looking interested. 

‘ It is sadly destitute. It would be a great thing if anything could 
be done for it. You have brought some children to school already 
L think. I saw some rough-looking boys, who said they came from 
Cocksmoor.’ 

This embarked the Doctor in the history of the ladies being too 
fine to teach the poor Cocksmoor girls, which he told with kindling 
vehemence and indignation, growing more animated every moment, 
as he stormed over the wonted subject of the bad system of manage- 
ment — ladies’ committee — negligent incumbent — insufficient clergy 
— misappropriated tithes— while Mr. Wilmot, who had mourned 
over it, within himself, a hundred times already, and was doing a 
Curate’s work on sufferance, with no pay, and little but mistrust 
from Mr. Ramsden, and absurd false reports among the more foolish 
part of the town, sat listening patiently, glad to hear the Doctor in 
his old strain, though it was a hopeless matter for discussion, and 
Ethel dreaded that the lamentation would go on till bed-time, and 
Cocksmoor be quite forgotten. 

After a time they came safely back to the project, and Richard 
was called on to explain. Ethel left it all to him, and he, with 
rising colour, and quiet, unhesitating, though diffident manner, de- 
tailed designs that showed themselves to have been well matured. Mr. 
Wilmot heard, cordially approved, and, as all agreed that no time 
was to be lost, while the holidays lasted, he undertook to speak to 
Mr. Ramsden on the subject the next morning, and if his consent 
to their schemas could be gained, to come in the afternoon to walk 
with Richard and Ethel to Cocksmoor, and set their affairs in order. 
All the time Ethel said not a word, except when referred to by her 
brother ; but when Mr. Wilmot took leave, he shook her hand 
warmly, as if he was much pleased with her. 1 Ah ! ’ she thought, 

‘ if he knew how ill I have behaved ! It is all show and hollowness 
with me.’ 

She did not know that Mr. Wilmot thought her silence one of 
the best signs for the plan, nor how much more doubtful he would 
have thought her perseverance, if he had seen her wild and vehement. 
As it was, he was very much pleased, and when the Doctor came out 
with him into the hall, he could not help expressing his satisfaction 
in Richard’s well-judged and sensibly-described project. 

1 Aye, aye ! ’ said the Doctor, ‘ there’s much more in the boy than 
I used to think. He’s a capital fellow, and more like his mother 
than any of them.’ 

‘ He is,’ said Mr. Wilmot; 1 there was a just, well-weighed senst? 
and soberness in his plans that put me in mind of her every moment. 


THE DAISY" CHAIN. 


135 


Dr. May gave his hand a squeeze, full of feeling, and went up to 
tell Margaret. She, on the first opportunity told Richard, and made 
him happier than he had been for months, not so much in Mr. Wil- 
mot’s words, as in his father’s assent to, and pleasure in them. 

♦♦♦ 


CHAPTER XY. 


Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects higfc 
So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be ; 

Sink not in spirit ; who aimeth at the 6ky 

Shoots higher much than he that means a tree. 

A grain of glory mixed with humbleness, 

Cures both a fever and lethargic! jess.’ 

IIeiibert. 

‘ Norman, do you feel up to a long day’s work ? ’ said Dr. May, cn 
the following morning. ‘ I have to set off after breakfast to see 
old Mrs. Gould, and to be at Abbotstoke Grange by twelve ; then 
I thought of going to Eordholm, and getting Mrs. Cleveland to 
give us some luncheon — there are some poor people on they way to 
look at ; and that girl on Far-view Hill ; and there’s another place 
to call at in coming home. You’ll have a good deal of sitting in 
the carriage, holding Whitefoot, so if you think you shall bo cold or 
tired, don’t scruple to say so, and I’ll take Adams to drive me.’ 

‘No, thank you,’ said Norman, briskly. ‘ This frost is famous.’ 

‘ It will turn to rain, I expect — it is too white,’ said the Doctor, 
looking out at the window. ‘ How will you get to Cocksmoor, good 
people ? ’ 

‘ Ethel won’t believe it rains unless it is very bad,’ said Richard. 

Norman set out with his father, and prosperously performed the 
expedition, arriving at Abbotstoke Grange at the appointed hour. 

‘ Ha ! ’ said the Doctor, as the iron gates of ornamental scroll 
work were swung hack, ‘ there’s a considerable change in this place 
since I was here last. Well kept up indeed ! Not a dead leaf left 
under the old walnuts, and the grass looks as smooth as if they had 
a dozen gardeners rolling it every day.’ 

‘ And the drive,’ said Norman, ‘ more like a garden-walk than a 
road ! But oh ! what a splendid cedar ! ’ 

‘ Isn’t it ! I remember that as long as I remember anything. 
All this fine rolling of turf, and trimming up of the place, does not 
make much difference to you, old fellow, does it? You don’t look 
altered since I saw you last, when old Jervis was letting the place 
go to rack and ruin. So they have a new entrance — very handsome 
conservatory — flowers — the banker does things in style. There,’ as 
Norman helped him off with his plaid, ‘ wrap yourself up well, don’t 
get cold. The sun is gone in, and I should not wonder if the rain 
were coming after all. I’ll not be longer than I can help.’ 


136 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


Dr. May disappeared from his son’s sight through the conserve 
tory, where, through the plate-glass, the exotics looked so fresh and 
perfumy, that Norman almost fancied that the scent reached him. 

‘ How much poor Margaret would enjoy one of those camellias,’ 
thought he, 1 and these people have bushels of them for mere show. 
If I were papa, I should be tempted to be like Beauty’s father, and 
carry off one. How she would admire it ! ’ 

Norman had plenty of time to meditate on the camellias, and 
then to turn and speculate on the age of the cedar, whether it could 
have been planted by the monks of Stoneborough Abbey, to whom 
the Grange had belonged, brought from Lebanon by a pilgrim, 
perhaps ; and then he tried to guess at the longevity of cedars, and 
thought of asking Margaret, the botanist of the family. Then ho 
yawned, moved the horse a little about, opined that Mr. Bivers must 
be very prosy, or have some abstruse complaint, considered the sky, 
and augured rain, buttoned another button of his rough coat, and 
thought of Miss Cleveland’s dinner. Then he thought there was a 
very sharp wind, and drove about till he found a sheltered place on 
the lee side of the great cedar, looked up at it, and thought it would 
be a fine subject for verses, if Mr. Wilmot knew of it, and then pro- 
ceeded to consider what he should make of them. 

In the midst he was suddenly roused by the deep-toned note of a 
dog, and beheld a large black Newfoundland dog leaping about the 
horse in great indignation. ‘ Hollo ! Kollo ! ’ called a clear young 
voice, and he saw two ladies returning from a walk. Kollp, at the 
first call, galloped back to his mistress, and was evidently receiving 
an admonition, and promising good behaviour. The two ladies entered 
the house, while he lay down on the step, with his lion-like paw 
hanging down, watching Norman with a brilliant pair of hazel eyes. 
Norman, after a little more wondering when Mr. Kivers would have 
done with his father, betook himself to civil demonstrations to the 
creature, who received them with dignity, and presently, after ac- 
knowledging with his tail, various whispers of w Good old fellow,’ 
and ‘ Here, old Hollo ! ’ having apparently satisfied himself that the 
young gentleman was respectable, he rose, and vouchsafed to stand 
up with his fore-paws in the gig, listening amiably to Norman’s deli- 
cate flatteries. Norman even began to hope to allure him into jump- 
ing on the seat ; but a great bell rang, and Kollo immediately turned 
T ound, and dashed off, at full speed, to some back region of the house. 

So, old fellow, you know what the dinner bell means,’ thought Nor- 
man. ‘ I hope Mr. Kivers is hungry too. Miss Cleveland will have 
eaten up her whole luncheon, if this old bore won’t let my father go 
soon ! I hope he is desperately ill — ’tis his only excuse ! Heigh 
ho ! I must jump out to warm my feet soon ! There, there’s a drop 
of rain ! Well, there’s no end to it ! I wonder what Ethel is doing 
about Cocksmoor. It is setting in for a wet afternoon! ’ and Norman 
disconsolately put up his umbrella. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 0/7 

oi 

At last l)r. May and another gentleman were seen in the conser* 
vatory, and Norman gladly proceeded to clear the seat; but Dr. 
May called out, ‘ Jump out, Norman, Mr. Divers is so kind as tc 
ask us to stay to luncheon.’ 

With boyish shrinking from strangers, Norman privately wished 
Mr. Divers at Jericho, as he gave the reins to a servant, and entered 
the conservatory, where a kindly hand was held out to him by a 
gentleman of about fifty, with a bald smooth forehead, soft blue eyes, 
and gentle pleasant face. * Is this your eldest son ? ’ said he, turning 
to Dr. May, — and the manner of both was as if they were already 
well acquainted. 1 No, this is my second. The eldest is not quite 
such a long-legged fellow,’ said Dr. May. And then followed the 
question addressed to Norman himself, where he was at school. 

‘ At Stoneborough,’ said Norman, a little amused at the thought 
how angry Ethel and Harry would be that the paragraph of the 
county paper where 1 N. W. May ’ was recorded as prizeman and 
foremost in the examination, had not penetrated even to Abbotstoke 
Grange, or rather to its owner’s memory. 

However, his father could not help adding, 1 He is the head of 
the school — a thing we Stoneborough men think much of.’ 

This, and Mr. Divers’s civil answer, made Norman so hot, that 
he did not notice much in passing through a hall full of beautiful 
vases, stuffed birds, busts, &c. tastefully arranged, and he did not 
look up till they were entering a handsome dining-room, where a 
small square table was laid out for luncheon near a noble fire. 

The two ladies were there, and Mr. Divers introduced them as 
his daughter and Mrs. Larpent. It was the most luxurious meal 
that Norman had ever seen, the plate, the porcelain, and all the ap- 
pointments of the table so elegant, and the viands, all partaking of 
the Christmas character, and of arccherch6 delicate description quite 
new to him. He had to serve as his father’s right hand, and was so 
anxious to put everything as Dr. May liked it, and without attract- 
ing notice, that he hardly saw or listened till Dr. May began to ad- 
mire a fine Claude, on the opposite wall, and embarked in a'picture 
discussion. The Doctor had much taste for art, and had made the 
most of his opportunities of seeing paintings during his time of study 
at Paris, and in a brief tour to Italy. Since that time, few good 
pictures had come in his way, and these were a great pleasure to him, 
while Mr. Divers, a regular connoisseur, was delighted to meet with 
one who could so well appreciate them. Norman perceived how his 
father was enjoying the conversation, and was much interested both 
by the sight of the first fine paintings he had ever seen, and by the 
talk about their merits; but the living things in the room had more 
of his attention and observation, especially the young lady who sat 
at the head of the table ; a girl about his own age ; she was on a very 
small scale, and seemed to him like a fairy, in the airy lightness and 
grace of her movements, and the blithe gladsomeness of her gestures 


138 


THE DAISY CHAIN, 


and countenance. Form and features, though perfectly healthful 
and brisk, had the peculiar finish and delicacy of a miniature paint- 
ing, and were enhanced by the sunny glance of her dark soft smiling 
eyes. Her hair was in black silky braids, and her dress, with its 
gaiety of well-assorted colour, was positively refreshing to his eye, so 
long accustomed to the deep mourning of his sisters. A little Italian 
greyhound, perfectly white, was at her side, making infinite variations 
of the line of beauty and grace, with its elegant outline, and S-like 
tail, as it raised its slender nose in hopes of a fragment of bread 
which she from time to time dispensed to it. 

Luncheon over, Mr. Rivers asked Dr. May to step into his li- 
brary, and Norman guessed that they had been talking all this time, 
and had never come to the medical opinion. However, a good meal 
and a large fire made a great difference in his toleration, and, it was 
so new a scene, that he had no objection to a prolonged waiting, espe- 
cially when Mrs. Larpent said, in a very pleasant tone ‘ Will you 
come into the drawing-room with us ? ’ 

He felt somewhat as if he was walking in enchanted ground as 
he followed her into the large room, the windows opening into the 
conservatory, the whole air fragrant with flowers, the furniture and 
ornaments so exquisite of their kind, and all such a fit scene for the 
beautiful little damsel, who, with her slender dog by her side, trip- 
ped on demurely, and rather shyly, but with a certain skipping light- 
ness in her step. A very tall overgrown school-boy did Norman feel 
himself for one bashful moment, when he found himself alone with 
the two ladies ; but he was ready to be set at ease by Mrs. Larpent’s 
good-natured manner, when she said something of Rollo’s discourtesy. 
He smiled, and answered that he had made great friends with the 
fine old dog, and spoke of his running off to the dinner, at which lit 
tie Miss Rivers laughed, and looked delighted, and began to tell of 
Rollo’s perfections and intelligence. Norman ventured to inquire 
the name of the little Italian, and was told it was Nipen, because it 
had once stolen a cake, much like the wind spirit in “ Feats on the 
Fiord.” Its beauty and tricks were duly displayed, and ai most beau- 
tiful Australian parrot was exhibited. Mrs. Larpent taking full 
interest in the talk, in so lively and gentle a manner, and she and 
her pretty pupil evidently on such sisterlike terms, that Norman 
could hardly believe her to be the governess, when he thought of 
Miss Winter. 

Miss Rivers took up some brown leaves which she was cutting 
out with scissors, and shaping. — ‘ Our holiday work,’ said Mrs. 
Larpent, in answer to the inquiring look of Norman’s eyes. 1 Meta 
has been making a drawing for her papa, and is framing it in leather 
work. Have you ever seen any ? ’ 

‘ Never ! ’ and Norman looked eagerly, asking questions, and 
watching while Miss Rivers cut out her ivy leaf and marked its 
reins, and showed how she copied it from nature. lie thanked her 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 133 

saying, ‘ I wanted to learn all about it, for I thought it would be 
such nice work for my eldest sister.’ 

A glance of earnest interest from little Meta’s bright eyes at her 
governess, and Mrs. Larpent, in a kind, soft tene that quite gained 
his heart, asked, ‘ Is she the invalid ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Norman. ‘ New fancy work is a great gain to ker. ; 

Mrs. Larpent’s sympathetic questions, and Meta’s softening eyes, 
gradually drew from him a great deal about Margaret’s helpless state, 
and her patience, and capabilities, and how everyone came to her 
with all their cares ; and Norman, as he spoke, mentally contrasted 
the life, untouched by trouble and care, led by the fair girl before 
him, with that atmosphere of constant petty anxieties round her 
namesake’s couch, at years so nearly the same. 

‘ How very good she must be,’ said little Meta quickly and softly ; 
and a tear was sparkling on her eyelashes. 

‘ She is indeed,’ said Norman earnestly. ‘ I don’t know what papa 
would do but for her.’ 

Mrs. Larpent asked kind questions whether his father’s arm was 
very painful, and the hopes of its cure ; and he felt as if she was a 
great friend already. Thence they came to books. Norman had not 
read for months past, but it happened that Meta was just now read- 
ing 1 W oodstock,’ with which he was of course familiar ; and both 
grew eager in discussing that and several others. Of one, Meta spoke 
in such terms of delight, that Norman thought it had been very 
stupid of him to let it lie on the table for the last fortnight without 
looking into it. 

He was almost sorry to see his father and Mr. Hi vers come in, and 
hear the carriage ordered, but they were not off yet, though the rain 
was now only Scotch mist. Mr. Rivers had his most choice little 
pictures still to display, his beautiful early Italian masters, finished 
like illuminations, and over these there was much lingering and 
admiring. Meta had whispered something to her governess, who 
smiled, and advanced to Norman. 1 Meta wishes to know if your sis- 
ter would like to have a few flowers ? ’ said she. 

No sooner said than done; the door into the conservatory was 
opened, and Meta, cutting sprays of beautiful geranium, delicious 
heliotrope, fragrant calycanthus, deep blue tree violet, and exquisite 
hothouse ferns ; perfect wonders to Norman, who, at each addition 
to the bouquet, exclaimed by turns, * Oh ! thank you,’ and ‘ how she 
will like it ! ’ 

Her father reached a magnolia blossom from on high, and the 
quick warm grateful emotion trembled in Dr. May’s features and 
voice, as he said, ‘ It is very kind in you ; you have given my poor 
girl a great treat. Thank you with all my heart.’ 

Margaret Rivers cast down her eyes, half smiled, and shrank 
back, thinking she had never felt anything like the left-handed grasp, 
so full of warmth and thankfulness. It gave her confidence to ven 


140 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


ture on the one question on which she was bent. Her father was in 
the hall, showing Norman his Greek nymph ; and lifting her eyes tc 
Hr. May’s face, then casting them down, she coloured deeper than 
ever, as she said, in a stammering whisper, 1 0 please — if you would 
tell me — do you think — is papa very ill ? 5 

Hr. May answered in his softest, most re-assuring tones : ‘You need 
not be alarmed about him, I assure you. You must keep him from too 
much business,’ he added, smiling ; ‘ make him ride with you, and not 
let him tire himself, and I am sure you can be his best doctor.’ 

1 But do you think,’ said Meta, earnestly looking up, £ do you think 
he will be quite well again ? ’ 

‘ You must not expect doctors to be absolute oracles,’ said he. 
£ I will tell you what I told him — I hardly think his will ever be 
sound health again, but I see no reason why he should not have many 
years of comfort, and there is no cause for you to disquiet yourself on 
his account — you have only to be careful of him.’ 

Meta tried to say £ thank you,’ but not succeeding, looked implor- 
ingly at her governess, who spoke for her. 1 Thank you, it is a great 
relief to have an opinion, for we were not at all satisfied about Mr. 
Bivers.’ 

A few words more, and Meta was skipping about like a sprite 
finding a basket for the flowers — she had another shake of the hand, 
another grateful smile, and 1 thank you,’ from the Hoctor ; and then, 
as the carriage disappeared, Mrs. Larpent exclaimed, ‘ What a very 
nice intelligent boy that was.’ 

£ Particularly gentlemanlike,’ said Mr. Bivers. 1 Very clever — 
the head of the school, as his father tells me — and so modest and 
unassuming — though I see his father is very proud of him.’ 

1 0, I am sure that they are so fond of each other,’ said Meta ; 
£ didn’t you see his attentive ways to his father at luncheon. And, 
papa, I am sure you must like Hr. May, Mr. Wilmot’s doctor, as much 
as I said you would.’ 

1 He is the most superior man I have met with for a long time,’ 
said Mr. Bivers. £ It is a great acquisition to find a man of such taste 
and acquirements in this country neighbourhood, when there is not 
another who can tell a Claude from a Poussin. I declare, when once 
we began talking, there was no leaving off — I have not met a person 
of so much conversation since I left town. I thought you would 
like to see him, Meta.’ 

£ I hope I shall know the Miss Mays some time or other. 

£ That is the prettiest little fairy I ever did see ! ’ was Hr. May’s 
remark, as Norman drove from the door. 

£ How good-natured they are ! ’ said Norman ; £ I just said some- 
thing about Margaret, and she gave me all these flowers. How 
Margaret will be delighted ! I wish the girls could see it all ! 

£ So you got on well with the ladies, did you ? * 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


141 


4 They were very kind to me. It was very pleasant ! ’ said Nor* 
man, with a tone of enjoyment that did his father’s heart good. 

4 I was glad you should come in. Such a curiosity shop is a 
sight, and those pictures were some of them well worth seeing. 
That was a splendid Titian.’ 

4 That cast of the Pallas of the Parthenon — how beautiful it 
was — I kn-ew it from the picture in Smith’s dictionary. Mr. Bivers 
said he would show me all his antiques if you would bring me again.’ 

4 1 saw he liked your interest in them. He is a good, kind-hearted 
dilettante sort of old man ; he has got all the talk of the literary, 
cultivated society in London, and must find it dullish work here.’ 

4 You liked him, didn’t you ? ’ 

4 He is very pleasant — I found he knew my old friend, Benson, 
whom I had not seen since we were at Cambridge together, and we 
got on that and other matters — London people have an art of con- 
versation not learnt here, and I don’t know how the time slipped 
away, but you must have been tolerably tired of waiting.’ 

‘ Not to signify,’ said Norman. 4 1 only began to think he must 
be very ill ; I hope there is not much the matter with him.’ 

‘ I can’t say. I am afraid there is organic disease, but I think 
it may be kept quiet a good while yet, and he may have a pleasant 
life for some time to come, arranging his prints, and petting his 
pretty daughter. He has plenty to fall back upon.’ 

4 Ho you go there again ? ’ 

4 Yes, next week. I am glad of it. I shall like to have another 
look at that little Madonna of his — it is the sort of picture that does one 
good to carry away in one’s eye. Whay!Stop. There’s an old woman 
in here. It is too late for Fordholm, but these cases won’t wait.’ 

He went into the cottage and soon returned saying, 4 Fine new 
blankets, and a great kettle of soup, and such praises of the ladies at 
the Grange ! ’ And, at the next house, it was the same story. 4 Well, 
’tis no mockery now, to tell the poor creatures they want nourishing 
food. Slices of meat and bottles of port wine rain down on Abbot* 
stoke.’ 

A far more talkative journey than usual ensued ; the discussion 
of the paintings and antiques was almost equally delightful to the 
father and son, and lasted till, about a mile from Stoneborough, they 
descried three figures in the twilight. 

4 Ha ! How are you, Wilmot ? So you braved the rain, Ethel 
Jump in,’ called the Doctor, as Norman drew up. 

4 1 shall crowd you — I shall hurt your arm, papa; thank you.’ 

4 No you won’t — jump in, — there’s room for three thread-papers 
in one gig. Why Wilmot, your brother has a very jewel of a squire ; 
How did you fare ? ’ 

4 Very well on the whole,’ was Mr. Wilmot’s answer, while Ethel 
scrambled in, and tried to make herself small, an art in which she was 
not very successful ; and Norman gave an exclamation of horrified 


142 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


warning, as she was about to step into the flower-basket ; then she 
nearly tumbled out again in dismay, and was relieved to find herself 
safely wedged in, without having done any harm, while her father 
called out to Mr. Wilmot, as they started, 1 1 say ! You are coming 
back to tea with us.’ 

That cheerful tone, and the kindness to herself, were a refresh- 
ment and revival to Ethel, who was still sobered and shocked by her 
yesterday’s adventure, and by the sense of her father’s sorrowful 
displeasure. Expecting further to be scolded for getting in so 
awkwardly, she did not venture to volunteer anything, and even 
when he kindly said, ‘ I hope you are prosperous in your expedition,’ 
she only made answer, in a very grave voice, ‘ Yes, papa, we have 
taken a very nice tidy room.’ 

i What do you pay for it ? ’ 

1 Fourpence for each time.’ 

1 Well, here’s for you,’ said Dr. May. ‘ It is only two guineas 
to-day ; that banker at the Grange beguiled us of our time, but you 
had better close the bargain for him, Ethel — he will be a revenue for 
you, for this winter at least.’ 

‘ 0 thank you, papa,’ was all Ethel could say ; overpowered by his 
kindness, and more repressed by what she felt so unmerited, than she 
would have been by coldness, she said few words, and preferred listen- 
ing to Norman, who began to describe their adventures at the Grange. 

All her eagerness revived., however, as she sprung out of the car- 
riage, full of tidings for Margaret; and it was almost a race between 
her and Norman to get up-stairs, and unfold their separate budgets. 

Margaret’s lamp had just been lighted, when they made their 
entrance, Norman holding the flowers on high. 

‘ Oh ! how beautiful, how delicious ! For me ? Where did you 
get them ? ’ 

‘ From Abbotstoke Grange ; Miss Rivers sent them to you.’ 

‘ How very kind ! What a lovely geranium, and oh, that fern ! I 
never saw anything so choice. How came she to think of me.’ 

‘ They asked me in because it rained, and she was making the 
prettiest things, leather leaves and flowers for picture frames. I 
thought it was work that would just suit you, and learnt how to do it. 
That made them ask about you, and it ended by her sending you 
this nosegay.’ 

1 How very kind every body is ! Well, Ethel, are you come lionie 
too ? ’ 

‘ Papa picked me up — 0 Margaret, we have found such a nice 
room, a clean sanded kitchen — ’ 

‘ You never saw such a conservatory — ’ 

‘ And it is to be let to us for fourpence a time — ’ 

‘ The house is full of beautiful things, pictures and statues. Onljj 
think of areal Titian, and a cast of the Apollo I ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


143 


1 Twenty children to begin with, and Richard is going to make 
some forms.’ 

‘ Mr. Rivers is going to show me all his casts.’ 

‘ 0, is he ? Rut only think how lucky we were to find such a nice 
woman; Mr. Wilmot was so pleased with her.’ 

Norman found one story at a time was enough, and relinquished 
the field, contenting himself with silently helping Margaret to arrange 
the flowers, holding the basket for her, and pleased with her ges- 
tures of admiration. Ethel went on with her history. ‘ The first 
place we thought of would not do at all ; the woman said she would 
not take half-a-crown a week to have a lot of children stabbling about, 
as she called it ; so we went to another house, and there was a very 
nice woman indeed, Mrs. Green, with one little boy, whom she 
wanted to send to school, only it is too far. She says she always goes 
to Church at Fordholm because it is nearer, and she is quite willing 
to let us have the room. So we settled it, and next Friday we are 
to begin. Papa has given us two guineas, and that will pay for, let 
me see, a hundred and twenty-six times, and Mr. Wilmot is going to 
give us some books, and Ritchie will print some alphabets. We told 
a great many of the people, and they are so glad. Old Granny Hall 
said, 1 Well, I never ! ’ and told the girls they must be as good as 
gold now the gentlefolks was coming to teach them. Mr. Wilmot 
is coming with us every Friday as long as the holidays last. 

Ethel departed on her father’s coming in to ask Margaret if she 
would like to have a visit from Mr. Wilmot. She enjoyed this 
very much, and he sat there nearly an hour, talking of many mat- 
ters, especially the Cocksmoor scheme, on which she was glad to 
hear his opinion at first hand. 

‘ I am very glad you think well of it,’ she said. ‘ It is most 
desirable that something should be done for those poor people, and 
Richard would never act rashly ; but I havfe longed for advice wheth- 
er it was right to promote Ethel’s undertaking. I suppose Richard 
told you how bent on it she was, long before papa was told of it.’ 

‘ He said it was her great wish, and had been so for along time past.’ 

Margaret, in words more adequate to express the possession the 
project had gained of Ethel’s ardent mind, explained the whole his- 
tory of it. ‘ I do believe she looks on it as a sort of call,’ said she, 
‘ and I have felt as if I ought not to hinder her, and yet I did not 
know whether it was right, at her age, to let her undertake so much.’ 

‘ I understand, said Mr. Wilmot, ‘ but, from what I have seen of 
Ethel, I should think you had decided rightly. There seems tome 
to be such a spirit of energy in her, that if she does not act she will 
either speculate and theorize, or pine and prey on herself. ^ I do 
believe that hard homely work, such as this school-keeping, is the 
best outlet for what might otherwise run to extravagance— more 
especially as you say the hope of it has already been an incentive 
to improvement in home duties. 


1M 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 That I am sure it has,’ said Margaret. 

< Moreover,’ said Mr. Wilmot, ‘ I think you weie quite right in 
thinking that to interfere with such a design was unsafe. I do 
believe that a great deal of harm is done by prudent friends, who 
dread to let young people do anything out of the common way, and 
so force their aspirations to ferment and turn sour, for want of being 
put to use.’ 

1 Still girls are told they ought to wait patiently, and not to be 
eager for self-imposed duties.’ 

‘ I am not saying, that it is not the appointed discipline for the 
girls themselves,’ said Mr. Wilmot. ‘If they would submit, and do 
their best, it would doubtless prove the most beneficial thing for 
them ; but it is a trial in which they often fail, and I had rather not 
be in the place of such friends.’ 

‘ It is a great puzzle ! ’ said Margaret, sighing. 

‘ Ah ! I daresay you are often perplexed,’ said her friend, kindly 

‘ Indeed I am. There are so many little details that I cannot 
be alway teasing papa with, and yet which I do believe form the 
character more than the great events, and I never know whether I 
act for the best. And there are so many of us, so many duties, I 
cannot half attend to any. Lately, I have been giving up almost 
everything to keep this room quiet for Norman in the morning, 
because he was so much harassed and hurt by bustle and confusion, 
and I found to-day that things have gone wrong in consequence.’ 

‘ You must do the best you can, and try to trust that while you 
work in the right spirit, your failures will be compensated,’ said 
Mr. Wilmot. ‘ It is a hard trial.’ 

‘ I like your understanding it,’ said Margaret, smiling sadly. 

‘ I don’t know whether it is silly, but I don’t like to be pitied for 
the wrong thing. My being so helpless is what everyone laments 
over ; but, after all, that is made up to me by the petting and kind- 
ness I get from all of them : but it is the being mistress of the 
house, and having to settle for everyone, without knowing whether I 
do right or wrong, that is my trouble.’ 

‘ I am not sure, however, that it is right to call it a trouble, 
though it is a trial.’ 

‘ I see what you mean,’ said Margaret. ‘ I ought to be thankful. 
I know it is an honour, and I am quite sure I should be grieved if 
they did not all come to me and consult me as they do. I had 
better not have complained, and yet I am glad I did, for I like you 
to understand my difficulties.’ 

‘ And, indeed, I wish to enter into them, and do or say anything 
in my power to help you. But I don’t know anything that can be 
of so much comfort as the knowledge that Tie who laid the burden 
on you, will help to bear it.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Margaret, pausing; and then, with a sweet look, 
(hough a heavy sigh, she said, ‘ It is very odd how things turn out ! 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


145 


I always had a childish fancy that I would he useful and important, 
but I little thought how it would be ! However, as long as Richard 
is in the house, I always feel secure about the others, and I shall soon 
be downstairs myself. Don’t you think dear papa in better spirits ? ’ 

1 1 thought so to-day — ’ and here the Doctor returned, talking 
of Abbotstoke Grange, where he had certainly been much pleased. 
‘ It was a lucky chance,’ he said, 1 that they brought Norman in. 
It was exactly what I wanted to rouse and interest him, and he took 
it all in so well, that I am sure they were pleased with him. I 
thought he looked a very lanky specimen of too much leg and arm 
when I called him in, but he has such good manners, and is so ready 
and understanding, that they could not help liking him. It was 
fortunate I had him instead of Richard. — Ritchie is a very good 
fellow, certainly, but he had rather look at a steam-engine, any day, 
than at Raffaelle himself.’ 

Norman had his turn by-and-by. He came up after tea, report- 
ing that papa was fast asleep in his chair, and the others would go 
on about Cocksmoor till midnight, if they were let alone ; and made 
up for his previous yielding to Ethel, by giving, with much anima- 
tion, and some excitement, a glowing description of t,he Grange, so 
graphic, that Margaret said she could almost fancy she had been there. 

‘ O Margaret, I wonder if you ever will ! I would give some- 
thing for you to see the beautiful conservatory. It is a real bower 
for a maiden of romance, with its rich green fragrance in the midst 
of winter. It is like a picture in a dream. One could imagine it a 
fairy land, where no care, or grief, or weariness could come, all 
choice beauty and sweetness waiting on the creature within. I can 
hardly believe that it is a real place, and that I have seen it.’ 

< Though you have brought these pretty tokens that your fairy is 
as good as sh? is fair,’ said Margaret, smiling. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Evans. Peace your tatllings. What is fair, William ? 

William. Pulcher. „ . 

Quickly. Poulcats ! there are fairer things than poulcats sure ! 

Evans. I pray you have your remembrance, child, accusative hino iiang hog. 
Quickly. Hang hog is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. 

Shakespeare. 

In a large family it must often happen, that since every member of 
it cannot ride the same hobby, nor at the same time, their several 
steeds must sometimes run counter to each other ; and so Ethel found 
it, one morning when Miss Winter, having a bad cold, had given her 
an unwonted holiday. 

Mr. Wilmot had sent a large parcel of books for her to chooso 
from for Cocksmoor, but this she could not well do without consulta- 
7 


146 


THE DAISY CHAIN, 


tion. The multitude bewildered her, she was afraid of taking toe 
many or too few, and the being brought to these practical details 
made her sensible that though her schemes were very grand and 
full for future doings, they passed very lightly over the intermediate 
ground. The ‘ Paulo post futurum ’ was a period much more de- 
veloped in her imagination than the future, that the present was 
fiowing into. 

Where was her coadjutor, Richard ? Writing notes for papa, 
and not to be disturbed. She had better have waited tranquilly, 
but this would not suit her impatience, and she ran up to Margaret’s 
room. There she found a great display of ivy leaves, which Nor- 
man, who had been turning half the shops in the town upside down 
in search of materials, was instructing her to imitate in leather work 
— a regular mania with him, and apparently the same with Margaret. 

In came Ethel. ‘ Oh ! Margaret, will you look at these “ First 
Truths ? ” Do you think they would be easy enough ? Shall I 
take some of the “ Parables ” and “ Miracles” at once, or content 
myself with the book about “ Jane Sparks ? ” ’ 

‘ There’s some very easy reading in “ Jane Sparks,” isn’t there ? 
I would not make the little books from the New Testament too 
common.’ 

‘ Take care, that leaf has five points,’ said Norman. 

‘ Shall I bring you up “ Jane Sparks ” to see ? Because then 
you can judge,’ said Ethel. 

‘ There, Norman, is that right? — what a beauty ! I should like 
to look over them by-and-by, dear Ethel, very much.’ 

Ethel gazed and went away, more put out than was usual with 
her. ‘ When Margaret has a new kind of fancy work,’ she thought, 

‘ she cares for nothing else ! as if my poor children did not signify 
more than trumpery leather leaves ! ’ She next met Flora. 

‘ 0 Flora, see here, what a famous parcel of books Mr. Wilmot 
has sent us to choose from.’ 

‘ All those ! ’ said Flora, turning them over as they lay heaped 
on the drawing-room sofa ; ‘ what a confusion ! ’ 

‘ See, such a parcel of reading books. I want to know what you 
think of setting them up with “ Jane Sparks,” as it is week-day 
teaching.’ 

‘ You will be very tired of hearing those spelt over for ever; 
they have some nicer books at the national school.’ 

‘ What is the name of them ? Do you see any of them here ? ’ 

‘ No, I don’t think I do, but I can’t wait to look now. I must 
write some letters. You had better put them together a little. If 
you were to sort them, you would know what is there. Now, what 
a mess they are in.’ 

Ethei could not dpny it, and began to deal them out in piles 
looking somewhat more fitting, but still felt neglected and aggrieved 


THE DAISY CnAIN. 147 

at no one being at leisure but Harry, who was not likely to be of 
any use to her. 

Presently she heard the study door open, and hoped ; but though 
it was Richard who entered the room, he was followed by Tom, and 
each held various books that boded little good to her. Miss Winter 
had, much to her own satisfaction, been relieved from the 'charge 
of Tom, whose lessons Richard had taken upon himself ; and thus 
Ethel had heard so little about them for a long time past, that even 
in her vexation and desire to have them over, she listened with 
’interest, desirous to judge what sort of place Tom might be likely 
to take in school. 

She did not perceive that this made Richard nervous and uneasy. 
He had a great dislike to spectators of Latin lessons ; he never had 
forgotten an unlucky occasion, some years back, when his father was 
examining him in the Georgies, and he, dull by nature, and duller 
by confusion and timidity, had gone on rendering word for word — 
enim for, seges a crop, Uni of mud, urit burns, campum the field, 
avence a crop of pipe, urit burns it, when Norman and Ethel had 
first warned him of the beauty of his translation by an explosion of 
laughing, when his father had shut the book with a bounce, shaken 
his head in utter despair, and told him to give up all thoughts of 
doing anything — and when Margaret had cried with vexation. 
Since that time, he had never been happy when anyone was in ear- 
shot of a lesson ; but to-day he had no escape — Harry lay on the 
rug reading, and Ethel sat forlorn over her books on the sofa. 
Tom, however, was bright enough, declined his Greek nouns irre- 
proachably, and construed his Latin so well, that Ethel could not 
help putting in a word or two of . commendation, and auguring the 
third form. ‘ Do let him off the parsing, Ritchie,’ said she coax- 
ingly — < he has said it so well, and I want you so much.’ 

‘ I am afraid I must not,’ said Richard ; who, to her surprise, 
did not look pleased or satisfied with the prosperous translation ; 
‘ but come, Tom, you shan’t have many words, if you really know 
them.’ 

Tom twisted and looked rather cross, but when asked to parse 
the word viribus , answered readily and correctly. 

1 Very well, only two more — affuit ? ’ 

1 Third person singular, prseter perfect tense of the verb affo, 
affis, affui, afferej gabbled off Tom with such confidence, that 
though Ethel gave an indignant jump, Richard was almost startled 
into letting it pass, and disbelieving himself. He remonstrated in 
a somewhat hesitating voice. ‘ Did you find that in the dictionary, 
said he, 1 1 thought affui came from adsum .’ 

‘ 0 to be sure, stupid fool of a word, so it does ! ’ said Tom 
hastily. 1 1 had forgot — adsum , ades, affui, adesse.' 

Riche rd said no more, but proposed the word oppositus. 

1 Adjective.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


.118 


Ethel was surprised, for she remembered that it was, in this 
passage, part of a passive verb, which Tom had construed correctly, 

‘ it was objected,’ and she had thought this very creditable to him, 
whereas he now evidently took it for opposite ; however, on Richard’s 
reading the line, he corrected himself and called it a participle, but 
did not commit himself further, till asked for its derivation. 

‘ From oppositor .’ 

1 Hallo ! ’ cried Harry, who hitherto had been abstracted in his 
book, but now turned, raised himself on his elbow, and, at the 
blunder, shook his thick yellow locks, and showed his teeth like a 
young lion. 

‘ No, now, Tom, pay attention,’ said Richard, resignedly. 1 If 
you found out its meaning, you must have seen its derivation.’ 

‘ OppositusJ said Tom, twisting his fingers, and gazing first at 
Ethel, then at Harry, in hopes of being prompted, then at the ceil- 
ing and floor, the while he drawled out the word with a whine 
‘ why, oppositus from op-posord 

‘ A poser ! aint it ? ’ said Harry. 

‘ Don’t, Harry, you distract him,’ said Richard. 1 Come, Tom, 
say at once whether you know it or not — it is of no use to invent.’ 

‘ From op — ’ and a mumble. 

1 What ? I don’t hear — op — ’ 

Tom again looked for help to Harry, who made a mischievous 
movement of his lips, as if prompting, and, deceived by it, he said 
boldly, ‘ From op-possum .’ 

1 That’s right ! let us hear him decline it ! ’ cried Harry, in an 
ecstasy, ‘ Oppossum, opottis , opposse , or oh-pottery ! ’ 

‘ Harry,’ said Richard, in a gentle reasonable voice, 1 1 wish 
you would be so kind as not to stay, if you cannot help distracting 
him.’ 

And Harry, who really had a tolerable share of forbearance and 
consideration, actually obeyed, contenting himself with tossing his 
book into the air and catching it again, while he paused at the door 
to give his last unsolicited assistance. ‘ Decline oppossum , you say. 
I’ll tell you how : O-possum re-poses up a gum tree. O-pot-you-1 
will; says the O-posse of Yankees, come out to ketch him. Opos- 
sum poses them and declines in O-pot-esse by any manner of means 
of o-potting-di-do-dum , was quite oppositum-oppositu , in fact, quite 
contrairy? 

Richard, with the gravity of a victim, heard this sally of school- 
boy wit, which threw Ethel back on the sofa in fits of laughing, 
and declaring that the Opossum declined, not that he was declined ; 
but, in the midst of the disturbance thus created, Tom stepped up 
to her, and whispered, 1 Do tell me, Ethel.’ 

1 Indeed I shan’t,’ said she. ‘ Why don’t you say fairly if you 
don’t know ? ’ 

He was obliged to confess his ignorance, and Richard made him 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


149 


conjugate the whole verb opponor from beginning to end, in which 
he wanted a good deal of help. 

Ethel could not help saying, 1 How did you find out the mean 
ing of that word, Tom, if you didn’t look out the verb ? ’ 

1 1 — don’t know,’ drawled Tom, in the voice, half sullen, half 
piteous, which he always assumed when out of sorts. 

1 It is very odd,’ she said, decidedly; but Richard took no notice, 
and proceeded to the other lessons, which went off tolerably well, 
except the arithmetic, where there was some great misunderstanding 
into which Ethel did not enter for some time. When she did at- 
tend, she perceived that Tom had brought a right answer, without 
understanding the working of the sum, and that Richard was putting 
him through it. She began to be worked into a state of dismay 
and indignation at Tom’s behaviour, and Richard’s calm indifference, 
which made her almost forget Jane Sparks, and long to be alone 
with Richard ; but all the world kept coming into the room, and 
going out, and she could not say what was in her mind till after 
dinner, when, seeing Richard go up into Margaret’s room, she ran 
after him, and entering it, surprised Margaret, by not beginning on 
her books, but saying at once, ‘ Ritchie, I wanted to speak to you 
about Tom. I am sure he shuffled about those lessons.’ 

‘ I am afraid he does,’ said Richard, much concerned. 

‘ What, do you mean that it is often so ? ’ 

‘ Much too often,’ said Richard ; 1 but I have never been able to 
detect him ; he is very sharp, and has some underhand way of 
preparing his lessons that I cannot make out.’ 

1 Did you know it, Margaret ? ’ said Ethel, astonished not to see 
her sister looked shocked as well as sorry. 

‘ Yes,’ said Margaret, 1 Ritchie and I have often talked it over, 
and tried to think what was to be done.’ 

‘ Dear me ! why don’t you tell papa ? It is such a terrible thing ! ’ 

1 So it is,’ said Margaret, 1 but we have nothing positive or tan- 
gible to accuse Tom of ; we don’t know what he does, and have 
never caught him out.’ 

‘ I am sure he must have found out the meaning of that opposi- 
tum in some wrong way — if he had looked it out, he would only 
have found opposite. Nothing but opponor could have shown him 
the rendering which he made.’ 

‘ That’s like what I have said almost every day,’ said Richard, 
* but there we are — I can’t get any further. ’ 

‘ Perhaps he guesses by the context,’ said Margaret 

‘ It would be impossible to do so always,’ said both the Latin 
scholars at once. 

‘ Well, I can’t think how you can take it so quietly,’ said Ethel 
I would have told papa the first moment, and put a stop to it. 1 
aave a great mind to do so if you won’t.’ 

‘ Ethel, Ethel, that would never do ! ’ exclaimed Margaret, ‘ praj 


150 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


don’t. Papa would be so dreadfully grieved and angry with poor 
Tom.’ 

4 Well, so lie deserves,’ said Ethel. 

4 You don’t know what it is to see papa angry,’ said Richard. 

4 Dear me, Richard ! ’ cried Ethel, who thought she knew pretty 
well what his sharp words were. 4 I’m sure papa never was angry 
with me, without making me love him more, and, at least, want to 
be better.’ 

4 You are a girl,’ said Richard. 

4 You are higher spirited, and shake off things faster,’ said 
Margaret. 

4 Why, what do you think he would do to Tom ? ’ 

4 I think he would be so very angry, that Tom, who, you know, 
is timid and meek, would be dreadfully frightened,’ said Richard. 

4 That’s just what he ought to be, frightened out of these tricks.’ 

4 1 am afraid it would frighten him into them still more,’ said 
Richard, 4 and perhaps give him such a dread c f my father as 
would prevent him from ever being open with him ’ 

4 Resides, it would make papa so very unhappy,’ added Margaret. 

4 Of course, if poor dear Tom had been found out in any positive 
deceit, we ought to mention it at once, and let him be punished; 
but while it is all vague suspicion, and of what papa has such a 
horror of, it would only grieve him, and make him constantly 
anxious, without, perhaps, doing Tom any good.’ 

4 I think all that is expediency,’ said Ethel, in her bluff, abrupt 
way. 

‘ Besides,’ said Richard, 4 we have nothing positive to accuse 
him of, and if we had, it would be of no use. He will be at school 
in three weeks, and there he would be sure to shirk, even if he left 
it off here. Everyone does, and thinks nothing of it.’ 

4 Richard ! ’ cried both sisters, shocked. ‘ You never did ? ’ 

4 No, we didn’t, but most others do, and not bad fellows either. 
Lt is not the way of boys to think much of those things.’ 

4 It is mean — it is dishonourable — it is deceitful ! ’ cried Ethel 

4 1 know it is very wrong, but you’ll never get the general run 
of boys to think so,’ said Richard. 

4 Then Tom ought not to go to school at all till he is well armed 
against it,’ said Ethel. 

4 That can’t be helped,’ said Richard. 4 He will get clear of it 
in time, when he knows better.’ 

4 1 will talk to him,’ s/iid Margaret, 4 and indeed, I think it would 
be better than worrying papa.’ 

4 Well,’ said Ethel, 4 of course I shan’t tell, because it is not my 
business, but I think papa ought to know everything about us, and 
I don’t like your keeping anything back. It is being almost as bad 
as Tom himself.’ 

With which words, as Flora entered, Ethel marched out of the 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


151 


room in displeasure, and went down, resolved to settle Jane Sparks 
by herself. 

‘ Ethel is out of sorts to-day,’ said Flora. ‘ What’s the 
matter ? ’ 

‘We have had a discussion,’ said Margaret. ‘She has been 
terribly shocked by finding out what we have often thought about 
poor little Tom, and she thinks we ought to tell papa. Her princi- 
ple is quite right, but I doubt — ’ 

‘ I know exactly how Ethel would do it ! ’ cried Flora ; ‘ blurt out 
all on a sudden, “ Papa, Tom cheats at his lessons ! ” then there would 
be a tremendous uproar, papa would scold Tom till he almost fright- 
ened him out of his wits, and then find out it was only suspicion.’ 

‘ And never have any comfort again,’ said Margaret. ‘ He 
would always dread that Tom was deceiving him, and then think 
it was all for want of — O no, it will never do to speak of it, un- 
less we find out some positive piece of misbehaviour.’ 

‘ Certainly,’ said Flora. 

‘ And it would do Tom no good to make him afraid of papa,’ 
said Richard. 

‘ Ethel’s rule is right in principle,’ said Margaret, the nglitfully, 
1 that papa ought to know all without reserve, and yet it will hardly 
do in practice. One must use discretion, and not tease him about 
every little thing. He takes them so much to heart, that he would 
be almost distracted ; and with so much business abroad, I think, 
at home, he should have nothing but rest, and, as far as we can, 
freedom from care and worry. Anything wrong about the children 
brings on the grief so much, that I cannot bear to mention it.’ 

Richard and Flora agreed with her, admiring the spirit which 
made her, in her weakness and helplessness, bear the whole burthen 
of family cares alone, and devote herself entirely to spare her fa- 
ther. He was, indeed, her first object, and she would have sacrificed 
anything to give him ense of mind ; but, perhaps, she regarded him 
more as a charge of her own, than as, in very truth, the head of 
the family. She had the government in her hands, and had never 
been used to see him exercise it much in detail (she did not know 
how much her mother had referred to him in private), and had suc- 
ceeded to her authority at a time when his health and spirits were 
in such a state as to make it doubly needful to spare him. It was 
no wonder that she sometimes carried her consideration beyond what 
was strictly right, and forgot that he was the real authority, more es- 
pecially as his impulsive nature sometimes carried him away, and 
his sound judgment was not certain to come into play at the first 
moment, so that it required some moral courage to excite displea- 
sure, so easy of manifestation ; and of such courage there was, per- 
haps, a deficiency in her character. Nor had she yet detected her 
lwn satisfaction in being the first with everyone in the family. 

Ethel was put out, as Flora had discovered, and when she was 


152 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


down stairs slie found it out, and accused .herself of having been 
cross to Margaret, and unkind to Tom — of wishing to be a tell-tale. 
But still, though displeased with herself, she was dissatisfied with 
Margaret; it might be right, but it did not agree with her notions. 
She wanted to see everyone uncompromising, as girls of fifteen gene- 
rally do ; she had an intense disgust and loathing of underhand ways, 
could not bear to think of Tom’s carrying them on, and going to a 
place of temptation with them uncorrected ; and she looked up to 
her father with a reverence and enthusiasm of one like minded. 

She was vexed on another score. Norman came home from 
Abbotstoke Grange without having seen Miss Bivers, but with a 
fresh basket of choice flowers, rapturous descriptions of Mr. Bivers’ 
prints, and a present of an engraving, in shading, such as to give 
the effect of a cast, of a very fine head of Alexander. Nothing 
w r as to be thought of but a frame for this — olive, bay, laurel, every- 
thing appropriate to the conqueror. Margaret and Norman were 
engrossed in the subject, and, to Ethel, who had no toleration for 
fancy work, who expected everything to be either useful or intellec- 
tual, this seemed very frivolous. She heard her father .say how 
glad he was to see Norman interested and occupied, and certainly, 
though it was only in leather leaves, it was better than drooping 
and attending to nothing. She knew, too, that Margaret did it for his 
sake, but, said Ethel to herself, ‘ It was very odd that people should 
find amusement in such things. Margaret always had a turn for 
them, but it was very strange in Norman.’ 

Then came the pang of finding out that this was aggravated by 
the neglect of herself ; she called it all selfishness, and felt that she 
had had an uncomfortable, unsatisfactory day, with everything going 
wrong. 


CHAPTEB XVII. 


Gently supported by the ready aid 
Of loving hands, whose little work of toil 
Her grateful prodigality repaid 
With all the benediction of her smile, 

She turned her failing feet 
To the softly cushioned seat, 

Dispensing kindly greetings all the time.’ 

E. M. Milnks. 

Three great events signalized the month of January. The first 
was, the opening of the school at Cocksmoor, whither a cart trans- 
ported half-a-dozen forms, various books, and three dozen plum-buns, 
Margaret’s contribution, in order that the school might begin with 
eclat. There walked Mr. Wilinot, Bichard, and Flora, with Mary, 
in a jumping capering, state of delight, and Ethel, not knowing 
whether she rejoiced. She kept apart from the rest, and hardly 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


153 


spoke, for tins long probation had impressed her with a sense of 
responsibility, and she knew that it was a great work to which she 
had set her hand — a work in which she must persevere, and in 
which she could not succeed in her own strength. 

She took hold of Flora’s hand, and squeezed it hard, in a fit of 
shyness, when they came upon the hamlet, and saw the children 
watching for them; and when they reached the house, she would 
fain have shrank into nothing ; there was a swelling of heart that 
seemed to overwhelm and stifle her, and the effect of which was to 
keep her standing unhelpful, when the others were busy bringing 
in the benches and settling the room. 

It was a tidy room, but it seemed very small when they ranged 
the benches, and opened the door to the seven-and-twenty children, 
and the four or five women who stood waiting. Ethel felt some dismay 
when they all came pushing in, without order or civility, and would 
have been utterly at a loss what to do with her scholars now she had 
got them, if Richard and Flora had not marshalled them to the benches. 

Rough heads, torn garments, staring vacant eyes, and mouths 
gaping in shy rudeness — it was' a sight to disenchant her of visions 
of pleasure in the work she had set herself. It was well that she 
had not to take the initiative. 

Mr. Wilmot said a few simple words to the mothers about the 
wish to teach their children what was right, and to do the best at 
present practicable ; and then told the children that he hoped they 
would take pains to be good, and mind what they were taught. Then 
he desired all to kneel down ; he said the Collect, ‘ Prevent us, 0 
Lord, in all our doings — ’ and then the Lord’s prayer. 

Ethel felt as if she could bear it better, and was more up to the 
work after this. Next, the children were desired to stand round 
the room, and Mr. Wilmot tried who could say the catechism — the 
two biggest, a boy and a girl, had not an idea of it, and the boy 
looked foolish, and grinned at being asked what was his name. One 
child was tolerably perfect, and about half-a-dozen had some dim no 
tions. Thr ^3 were entirely ignorant of the Lord’s prayer, and many 
of the others did not by any means pronounce the words of it. Jane 
and Fanny Taylor, Rebekah Watts, and Mrs. Green’s little boy, were 
the only ones who, by their own account, used morning and evening 
prayers, though, on further examination, it appeared that Polly and 
Jenny Hall, and some others were accustomed to repeat the old 
rhyme about 1 Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,’ and Una M’Carthy 
and her little brother Fergus said something that nobody could make 
out, but .which Mr. Wilmot thought had once been an ‘ Ave Maria.’ 

Some few of the children could read, and several more knew 
their letters. The least ignorant were selected to form a first-class, 
and Mr. Wilmot promised a Prayer-book to the first who should be 
able to repeat the catechism without a mistake, and a Bible to the 
first who could read a chapter in it. 


154 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Then followed a setting of tasks, varying from a verse of a 
psalm, or the first answer in the catechism, down to the distinction 
between A, B, and C ; all to be ready by next Tuesday, when, weath- 
er permitting, a second lesson was to be given. Afterwards, a piece 
of advice of Margaret’s was followed, and Flora read aloud to the 
assembly the story of 1 Margaret Fletcher.’ To some this seemed 
to give great satisfaction, especially to Una, but Ethel was surprised 
to see that many, and those not only little ones, talked and yawned. 
They had no power of attention even to a story, and the stillness 
was irksome to such wild colts. It was plain that it was time to 
leave off, and there was no capacity there which did not find the 
conclusion agreeable, when the basket was opened, and Ethel and 
Mary distributed the buns, with instructions to say 1 thank you.’ 

The next Tuesday, some of the lessons were learnt, Una’s per- 
fectly ; the big ignorant boy came no more ; and some of the chil- 
dren had learnt to behave better, while others behaved worse; 
Ethel began to know what she was about ; Richard’s gentleness was 
eminently successful with the little girls, impressing good manners 
on them in a marvellous way ; and Mary’s importance and happi- 
ness with alphabet scholars, some bigger than herself, were edifying. 
Cocksmoor was fairly launched. 

The next memorable day was that of Margaret’s being first carried 
down stairs. She had been too willing to put it off as long as she could, 
dreading to witness the change below stairs, and feeling too, that in 
entering on the family room, without power of leaving it, she was 
losing all quiet and solitude^ as well as giving up that monopoly of 
her father in his evenings, which had been her great privilege. 

However, she tried to talk herself into liking it ; and was re- 
warded by the happy commotion it caused, though Dr. May was in 
a state of excitement and nervousness at the prospect of seeing her 
on the stairs, and his attempts to conceal it only made it worse, till 
Margaret knew she should be nervous herself, and wished him out 
of sight and out of the house till it was over, for without him she 
had full confidence in the coolness and steadiness of Richard, and 
by him it was safely and quietly accomplished. She was landed on 
the sofa, Richard and Flora settling her, and the others crowding 
round and exclaimiug, while the newness of the scene and the change 
gave her a sense of confusion, and she shut her eyes to recover her 
thoughts, but opened them the next instant at her father’s exclama- 
tion that she was overcome, smiled to reassure him, and declared 
herself not tired, and to be very glad to be among them again. But 
the bustle was oppressive, and her cheerful manner was an effort ; 
she longed to see them all gone, and Flora found it out, sent the 
children for their walk, and carried off Ethel and the brothers. 

Dr. May was called out of the room at the same time, and she 
was left alone. She gazed round her, at the room where, four 
months before, she had seen her mother with the babe in her arms, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


155 


the children clustered round her, her father exulting in his hen-and- 
chicken daisies, herself full of bright undefined hope, radiant with 
health and activity, and her one trouble such that she now knew 
the force of her mother’s words, that it only proved her happiness. 
It was not till that moment that Margaret realized the change ; she 
found her eyes filling with tears, as she looked round, and saw the 
familiar furniture and ornaments. 

They were instantly checked as she heard her father returning, 
but not so that he did not perceive them, and exclaim that it had 
been too much for her. ‘ 0 no — it was only the first time, 5 said 
Margaret, losing the sense of the juinful vacancy in her absorbing 
desire not to distress her father, and thinking only of him as she 
watched him standing for some minutes leaning on the mantel-shelf, 
with his hand shading his forehead. 

She began to speak as soon as she thought he was ready to have 
his mind turned away : ‘ How nicely Ritchie managed ! He carried 
me so comfortably and easy. It is enough to spoil me to be so 
deftly waited on.’ 

‘ I’m glad of it,’ said Dr. May ; ‘ I am sure the change is better 
for you but he came and looked at her still with great solicitude. 

‘ Ritchie can take excellent care of me, 5 she continued, most 
anxious to divert his thoughts. ‘ You see it will do very well in- 
deed for you to take Harry to school. 5 

‘ I should like to do so. I should like to see his master, and to 
take Norman with me,’ said the Doctor. ‘ It would be just the 
thing for him now — we would show him the dockyard, and all those 
matters, and such a thorough holiday would set him up again. 5 

1 He is very much better. 5 

1 Much better — he is recovering spirits and tone very fast. That 
leaf-work of yours came at a lucky time. I like to see him looking 
out for a curious f?rn in the hedge-rows — the pursuit has quite 
brightened him up. 5 

‘ And he does it so thoroughly, 5 said Margaret. 1 Ethel fancies 
it is rather frivolous of him, I believe ; but it amuses me to see how 
men give dignity to what women make trifling. He will know 
everything about the leaves, hunts up my botany books, and has 
taught me a hundred times more of the construction and wonders of 
them than I ever learnt. 5 

< Aye, 5 said the Doctor, ‘ he has been talking a good deal to me 
about vegetable chemistry. He would make a good scientific 
botanist, if he were to be nothing else. I should be glad if he 
sticks to it as a pursuit — ’tis pretty work, and I should like to have 
gone further with it, if I had ever had time for it. 5 

< I dare say he will, 5 said Margaret. ‘ It will be very pleasant 
if he can go with you. How he would' enjoy the British Museum, 
L i there was time for him to see it ! Have you said anything to him 
yet ? 5 


156 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


No ; I waited to see how you were, as it all depends on that. 

1 1 think it depends still more on Something else ; whether Nor 
man is as fit to take care of you as Richard is.’ 

‘ That’s another point. There’s nothing hut what he could 
manage now, but I don’t like saying anything to him. I know he 
would undertake anything I wished, without a word, and then, per- 
haps, dwell on it in fancy, and force himself, till it would turn to a 
perfect misery, and upset his nerves again. I’m sorry for it. I meant 
him to have followed my trade, but he’ll never do for that. How- 
ever, he has wits enough to make himself what he pleases, and J 
dare say he will keep at the head of the school after all.’ 

1 How very good he has been in refraining from restlessness ! ’ 

1 It’s beautiful 1 ’ said Dr. May, with strong emotion. ‘ Pool 
boy ! I trust he’ll not be disappointed, and I don’t think he will ; 
but I’ve promised him I won’t be annoyed if he should lose his 
place — so we must take especial care not to show any anxiety. 
However, for this matter, Margaret, I wish you would sound him, 
and see whether it would be more pleasure or pain. Only mind 
you don’t let him think that I shall be vexed, if he feels that he 
can’t make up his mind ; I would not have him fancy that for more 
than I can tell.’ 

This consultation revived the spirits of both ; and the others 
returning, found Margaret quite disposed for companionship. If 
to her the evening was sad and strange, like a visit in a dream to 
some old familiar haunt, finding all unnatural, to the rest it was 
delightful. The room was no longer dreary, now that there was a 
centre for care and attentions, and the party Was no longer broken 
up — the sense of comfort, cheerfulness, and home-gathering had 
returned, and the pleasant evening household gossip went round the 
table almost as it used to do. Dr. May resumed his old habit of 
skimming a club book, and imparting the cream to the listeners ; 
and Flora gave them some music, a great treat to Margaret, who 
had long only heard its distant sounds. 

Margaret found an opportunity of talking to Norman, and 
judged favourably. He was much pleased at the prospect of the 
journey, and of seeing a ship, so as to have a clearer notion of the 
scene where Harry’s life was to be spent, and though the charge of 
the arm was a drawback, he did not treat it as insurmountable. 

A few days’ attendance in his father’s room gave him confidence 
in taking Richard’s place, and, accordingly, the third important 
measure was decided on, namely, that he and his father should ac- 
company Harry to the naval school, and be absent three nights. 
Some relations would be glad to receive them in London, and Alan 
Ernescliffe, who was studying steam navigation at Woolwich, vol- 
unteered to meet them, and go with them to Portsmouth. 

It was a wonderful event ; Norman and Harry had never been 
beyond Whiteford in their lives, and none of the young ones could 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


157 


recollect their papa’s ever going from home for more than one night. 
Dr. May laughed at Margaret for her anxiety and excitement on the 
subject, and was more amused at overhearing Richard’s precise 
directions to Norman over the packing up. 

‘ Aye, Ritchie,’ said the Doctor, as he saw his portmanteau 
locked, and the key # given to Norman, 1 you may well look grave 
upon it. You won’t see it look so tidy when it comes back again, 
and I believe you are thinking it will be lucky if you see it at all.’ 

There was a very affectionate leave-taking of Harry, who, grow- 
ing rather soft-hearted, thought it needful to be disdainful, scolded 
Mary and Blanche for ‘ lugging off his figure-head,’ and assured 
them they made as much work about it as if he was going to sea al 
once. Then, to put an end to any more embraces, he marched off 
to the station with Tom, and nearly caused the others to be too 
late, by the search for him that ensued. 

In due time, Dr. May and Norman returned, looking the better 
for the journey. There was, first, to tell of Harry’s school and its 
master, and Alan Ernescliffe’s introduction of him to a nice-looking 
boy of his own age ; then they were eloquent on the wonders of the 
dockyard, the Victory, the block machinery. And London — while 
Dr. May went to transact some business, Norman had been with 
Alan at the British Museum, and though he had intended to see 
half London besides, there was no tearing him away from the Elgin 
marbles ; and nothing would serve him, but bringing Dr. May the 
next morning to visit the Ninevite bulls. Norman further said, 
that whereas papa could never go out of his house without meeting 
people who had something to say to him, it was the same elsewhere. 
Six acquaintances he had met unexpectedly in London, and two at 
Portsmouth. 

So the conversation went on all the evening, to the great delight 
of all. It was more about things than people, though Flora 
inquired after Mr. Ernescliffe, and was told he had met them 
at the station, had been everywhere with them, and had dined at 
Mackenzies’ each day. 1 How was he looking ? ’ Ethel asked ; and 
was told pretby much the same as when he went away; and, on a 
further query from Flora, it appeared that an old naval friend of 
his father’s had hopes of a ship, and had promised to have him with 
him, and thereupon warm hopes were expressed that Harry might 
have a berth in the same. 

‘ And when is he coming here again, papa ? ’ said Ethel. 

1 Eh ! oh ! I can’t tell. I say, isn’t it high time to ring ? ’ 

When they went up at night, everyone felt that half the say 
had not been said, and there were fresh beginnings on the stairs. 
Norman triumphantly gave the key to Richard, and then called tc 
Ethel; ‘I say, won’t you come into my room while I unpack?’ 

‘ O yes, I should like it very much.’ 

Ethel sat on tfip bed rolled up in a cloak, while Norman undid 


158 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


his bag, announcing at the same time: ‘ Well, Ethel, papa says I may 
get to my Euripides to-morrow, if I please, and only work an hour 
at a time ! ’ 

‘0 lam so glad. Then Le thinks you quite well ? 

Yes, I am quite well. I hope I’ve done with nonsense.’ 

And how did you get on with his arm ? ’ ' 

1 Very well — he was so patient, and told me how to manage. 
You heard that Sir Matthew said it had got much better in these 
few weeks. 0 here it is ! There’s a present for you.’ 

‘ 0, thank you. From you, or from papa ? ’ 

‘ This is mine. Papa has a present for everyone in his bag. He 
said, at last, that a man with eleven children hadn’t need go to Lon- 
don very often.’ 

1 And you got this beautiful Lyra Innocentium for me. How 
very kind of you, Norman. It is just what I wished for. Such 
lovely binding — and those embossed edges to the leaves. Oh ! they 
make a pattern as they open ! I never saw anything like it.’ 

‘ I saw such a one on Miss Bivers’s table, and asked Ernesclifie 
where to get one like it. See here’s what my father gave me.’ 

‘ Bishop Ken’s Manual. That is in readiness for the Confir- 
mation.’ 

‘ Look ! I begged him to put my name, though he said it was a 
pity to do it with his left hand ; I didn’t like to wait, so I asked 
him at least to write N. W. May, and the date.’ 

1 And he has added Prov. xxiii. 24, 25. Let me look it out.’ 
She did so, and instead of reading it aloud, looked at Norman full 
of congratulation. 

‘ How it ought to make one — ’ and there Norman broke off from 
the fulness of his heart. 

1 I’m glad he put both verses,’ said Ethel, presently. 1 How 
pleased with you he must be ! ’ 

A silence while brother and sister both gazed intently at the 
crooked characters, till at last Ethel, with a long breath, resumed 
her ordinary tone, and said, ‘ How well he has come to -write with 
his left hand now.’ 

‘ Yes. Did you know tnat he wrote himself to tell Ernescliffe 
Sir Matthew’s opinion of M argaret ? ’ 

‘ No : did he ? ’ 

1 Do you know, Ethel, said Norman, as he knelt on the floor, 
and tumbled miscellaneous articles out of his bag, 1 it is my belief 
that Ernescliffe is in love with her, and that papa thinks so.’ 

1 Dear me ! ’ cried Ethel, starting up. ‘ That is famous. We 
should always have Margaret at home when he goes to sea ! ’ 

‘ But mind, Ethel, for your life you must not say one word to 
any living creature.’ 

‘ 0 no, I promise yc u I won’t, Norman, if you’ll only tell me how 
you found it out.” 


TI1E DAISY CHAIN. 


150 


‘ What first put it in my head was the first evening, while I was 
undoing the portmanteau ; my father leant on the mantel-shelf, and 
sighed and muttered, ‘ Poor Ernescliffe ! I wish it may end well.’ 
I thought he forgot that I was there, so I would not seem to notice, 
but I soon saw it was that he meant.’ 

1 How ? ’ cried Ethel, eagerly. 

‘ 0, I don’t know — by Alan’s way. 

‘ Tell me — I want to know what people do when they aro in 
love.’ 

1 Nothing particular,’ said Norman, smiling. 

1 Hid you hear him inquire for her ? How did he look ? ’ 

‘ I can’t tell. That was when he met us at the station before I 
thought of it, and I had to see to the luggage. But I’ll tell you 
one thing, Ethel ; when papa was talking of her to Mrs. Mackenzie, 
at the other end of the room, all his attention went away in an in- 
stant from what he was saying. And once, when Harry said some- 
thing to me about her, he started, and looked round so earnestly.’ 

‘ O yes — that’s like people in books. And did he colour ? ’ 

‘ No ; I don’t recollect that he did,’ said Norman ; 1 but I ob- 
served lie never asked directly after her if he could help it, but 
always was trying to lead, in some roundabout way, to hearing what 
she was doing.’ 

‘ Hid he call her Margaret ? ’ 

* I watched; but to me he always said, “ Your sister,” and if he 
had to speak of her to papa, he said* u Miss May.” And then you 
should have seen his attention to papa. I could hardly get a chair. 3e 
of doing anything for papa.’ 

‘0 lam sure of it ! ’ cried Ethel, clasping her hands. 1 But, poor 
man, how unhappy he must have been at having to go away when 
she was so ill ! ’ 

1 Aye, the last time he saw her was when he carried her up-stairs,’ 

‘ O dear ! I hope he will soon come here again ! ’ 

‘ I don’t suppose he will. Papa did not ask him.’ 

‘ Hear me, Norman ! Why not ? Isn’t papa very fond of him ? 
Why shouldn’t he come ? ’ 

‘ Hon’t you see, Ethel, that would be of no use while poor Mar- 
garet is no better. If he gained her affections, it would only make 
her unhappy.’ 

‘ O, but she is much better. She can raise herself up now with- 
out help, and sat up ever so long this morning, without leaning back 
on her cushions. She is getting well — you know Sir Matthew said 
she would.’ 

‘Yes; but I suppose papa thinks they had better say nothing 
till she is quite well.’ 

1 And when she is ! How famous it will be 1 ’ 

1 Then there’s another thing ; he is very poor, you know.’ 

i I am sure papa does not care about people being rich.’ 


160 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ I suppose Alan thinks lie ought not to marry, unless he could 
make his wife comfortable.’ 

‘ Look here — it would be all very easy: she should stay with us, 
and be comfortable here, and lie go to sea, and get lots of prize 
money.’ 

‘And that’s what you call domestic felicity!’ said Norman, 
laughing. 

‘ He might have her* when he was at home,’ said Ethel. 

‘ No, no ; that would never do,’ said Norman. c Do you think 
Ernescliffe is a man that would marry a wife for her father to main 
tain her ? ’ 

‘ Why, papa would like it very much. He is not a mercenary 
father in a book.’ 

‘ Hey ! what’s that ? ’ said a voice, Ethel little expected. ‘ Con- 
traband talk at contraband times ? What’s this ! ’ 

‘ Did you hear, papa ? ’ said Ethel, looking down. 

‘ Only your last words, as I came up to ask Norman what he had 
done with my pocket-book. Mind, 'I ask no impertinent questions ; 
but, if you have no objection, I should like to know what gained 
me the honour of that compliment.’ 

‘ Norman ? ’ said Ethel, interrogatively, and blushing in emula- 
tion of her brother, who was crimson. 

‘ I’ll find it,’ said he, rushing off with a sort of nod and sign, 
that conveyed to Ethel that there was no help for it. 

So, with much confusion, she whispered into her papa’s ear that 
Norman had been telling her something he guessed about Mr. 
Ernescliffe. 

Her father at first smiled, a pleased amused smile. ‘ Ah ! ha ! 
so Master J une has his eyes and ears open, has he ? A fine bit of 
gossip to regale you with on his return ! ’ 

‘ He told me to say not one word,’ said Ethel. 

‘ Right — mind you don’t,’ said Dr. May, and Ethel was surprised 
to see how sorrowful his face became. At the same moment Nor- 
man returned, still very red, and said, “ I’ve put out the pocket- 
book, papa. I think I should tell you I repeated what, perhaps, you 
did not mean me to hear — you talked to yourself something of pity- 
ing Ernescliffe.’ 

The Doctor smiled again at the boy’s high-minded openness, 
which must have cost an effort of self-humiliation. ‘ I can’t say 
little pitchers have long ears, to a May-pole like you, Norman,’ said 
lie ; ‘I think I ought rather to apologize for having inadvertently 
tumbled in among your secrets ; I assure you I did not come to spy 
you.’ 

‘ O, no, no, no, no! ’ repeated Ethel, vehemently ‘ Then you 
didn’t mind our talking about it ? ’ 

‘ Of course not, as long as it goes no further. It is the use of 
sisters, to tell them one’s private sentiments. Is not it, Norman ? 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 161 

‘ And do you really think it is so , papa ? ’ Ethel could not help 
whispering. 

I’m afraid it is! ’said Dr. May, sighing; then, as he caught 
her earnest eyes ; ‘ The more I see of Alan, the finer fellow I think 
him, and the more sorry I am for him. It seems presumptuous, 
almost wrong, to think of the matter at all while my poor Margaret 
is in this state ; and, if she were well, there are other difficulties 
which would, perhaps, prevent his speaking, or lead to long years of 
waiting and wearing out hope.’ 

‘ Money ! ’ said Ethel. 

1 Aye ! Though I so far deserve your compliment, Miss, that I 
should be foolish enough, if she were but well, to give my consent 
to-morrow, because I could not help it ; yet one can’t live forty-six 
years in this world without seeing it is wrong to marry without a 
reasonable dependence — and there won’t be much among eleven of 
you. It makes my heart ache to think of it, come what may, as far 
as I can see, and without her to judge. The only comfort is, that 
poor Margaret herself knows nothing of it, and is at peace so far. 
It will be ordered for them, anyhow. Good night, my dear.’ 

Ethel sought her room, with graver, deeper thoughts of life than 
she had carried up stairs. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

‘ Saw ye never in the meadows, 

. Where your little feet did pass, 

Down below, the sweet white daisies 
Growing in the long green grass? 

Saw you never lilac blossoms, 

Or acacia white and red, 

Waving brightly in the sunshine, 

On the tall trees over head ? ’ 

Hymns fob Children, C. F. A. 

My dear child, what a storm you have had ! how wet you must be ! 
exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad 
staircase at Abbotstoke Grange. 

‘ Oh, no; I am quite dry; feel.’ 

‘ Are you sure ? ’ said Mrs. Larpent, drawing her darling into a 
luxurious bed-room, lighted up by a glowing fire, and full of pretty 
things. ‘ Here, come "and take off your wet things, my dear, and 
Bellairs shall bring you some tea.’ 

< J’ m dry ; I’m warm,’ said Meta, tossing off her plumy hat, as 
she established herself, with her feet on the fender. ‘ Rut where do 
you think I have been? You have so much to hear ; but first — 
three guesses where we were in the rain ? ’ 

‘ In the Stoneborough Cloisters, that you wanted to see ? My 
dear, you did not keep your papa in the cold there ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1<52 

4 No no • we never got there at all; guess again.’ 

1 At Mr, Edward Wilmot’s ? ’ 

4 No ! ’ 

4 Could it have been at Dr. May’s ? Really, then, you musi 
tell me.’ 

4 There ! you deserve a good long story ; beginning at the begin- 
ning,’ said Meta, clapping her hands, 4 wasn’t it curious ? as we were 
coming up the last bill, we met some girls in deep mourning, with a 
lady, who looked like their governess. I wondered whether they 
could be Dr. May’s daughters, and so it turned out they were. 
Presently there began to fall little square lumps, neither hail, nor 
snow, nor rain ; it grew very cold, and rain came on. It would have 
been great fun, if I had not been afraid papa would catch cold, and 
he said we would canter on to the inn. But luckily, there was Dr. 
May walking up the street, and he begged us to come into his house. 
I was so glad ! We were tolerably wet, and Dr. May said some- 
thing about hoping the girls were at home ; well, when he opened 
the drawing-room door, there was the poor daughter lying on the 
sofa.’ 

4 Poor girl ! tell me of her.’ 

4 Oh ! you must go and see her; you won’t look at her without 
losing your heart. Papa liked her so much — see if he does not 
talk of her all the evening. She looks the picture of goodness and 
sweetness. Only think of her having some of the Maidenhair and 
Cape J essamine still in water, that we sent her so long ago. She 
shall have some flowers every three days. Well, Dr. May said, 
44 There is one at least, that is sure to be at home.” She felt my 
habit, and said I must go and change it, and she called to a little 
thing of six, telling her to show me the way to Flora. She smiled, 
and said she wished she could go herself, but Flora would take care 
of me. Little Blanche came and took hold of my hand, chattering 
away, up we went, up two staircases, and at the top of the last stood 
a girl about seventeen, so pretty ! such deep blue eyes, and such a 
complexion ! “ That’s Flora,” little Blanche said ; 44 Flora, this is 

Miss Rivers, and she’s wet, and Margaret says you are to take care 
of her.” ’ 

4 So that was your introduction ? ’ 

4 Yes; we got acquainted in a minute. She took me into her 
room — such a room ! I believe Bellairs would be angry if she had 
such an one; all up in the roof, no fire, no carpet, except little 
strips by the beds; there were three beds. Flora used to sleep 
there till Miss May was ill, and now she dresses there. Yet I am 
sure they are as much ladies as I am ’ 

4 You are an only daughter, my dear, and a petted one,’ said 
Mrs. Larpent, smiling. 4 There are too many of them to make 
much of, as we do of our Meta.’ 

4 1 suppose so ; but I did not know gentlewomen lived in such a 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


163 

way,’ said Meta. ‘ There were nice things about, a beautiful inlaid 
work-box of Flora’s, and a rosewood desk, and plenty of books, 
and a Greek book and dictionary were spread open. I asked Flora 
if they were hers, and she laughed and said no ; and that Ethel 
would be much discomposed that I had seen them. Ethel keeps up 
with her brother Norman — only fancy ! and he at the head of the 
school. How clever she must be ! ’ 

‘ But, my dear, were you standing in your wet things all this time ! 

‘ No ; I was trying on their frocks, but they trailed on the ground 
upon me, so she asked if I would come and sit by the nursery fire till 
my habit was dry ; and there was the dear little good-humoured 
baby, so fair and pretty. She is not a bit shy, will go to anybody, 
but, they say, she likes no one so well as her brother Norman.’ 

1 So you had a regular treat of baby nursing.’ 

‘ That I had ; I could not part with her, the darling. Flora 
thought we might take her down, and I liked playing with her in 
the drawing-room and talking to Miss May, till the fly came to take 
us home. I wanted to have seen Ethel ; but, only think, papa has 
asked Dr. May to bring Flora some day; how I hope he will ! ’ 

Little Meta having told her story, and received plenty of sympathy, 
proceeded to dress, and, while her maid braided her hair, a musing 
fit fell upon her. 1 1 have seen something of life to-day,’ thought 
she. ‘I had thought of the great difference between us and the 
poor, but I did not know ladies lived in such different ways. I 
should be very miserable without Bellairs, or without a fire in my 
room. I don’t know what I should do if I had to live in that cold, 
shabby den, and do my own hair, yet they think nothing of it, and 
they are cultivated and lady-like ! Is it all fancy, and being brought 
up to it % I wonder if it is right ? Yet dear papa likes me to have 
these things, and can afford them. I never knew I was luxurious 
before, and yet I think I must be ! One thing I do wish, and that 
is, that I -was of as much use as those girls. I ought to be. I 
am a motherless girl like them, and I ought to be everything to 
papa, just as Miss May is, even lying on the sofa there, and only 
two years older than I am. I don’t think I am of any use at all ; 
he is fond of me, of course, dear papa ; and if I died, I don’t know 
what would become of him, but that’s only because I am his 
daughter — he has only George besides to care for. But, really and 
truly, he would get on as well without me. I never do anything for 
him, but now and then playing to him in the evening, and that not 
always, I am afraid, when I want to be about anything else. He is 
always petting me, and giving me all I want, but I never do anything 
but my lessons, and going to the school, and the poor people, and 
that is all pleasure. I have so much that I never miss what I give 
p„way. I wonder whether it is all right. Leonora and Agatha have 
not so much money to do as they please with — they are not sc 
idolized. George said, when he was angry, that papa idolizes me 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 CA 

but they Have all these comforts and luxuries, and never think of 
anything but doing what they like. They never made me consider 
as these Mays do. I should like to know them more. I do so 
much want a friend of my own age. It is the only want I have. 
I have tried to make a friend of Leonora, but I cannot; she never 
cares for what I do. If she saw these Mays she would look down 
on them. Dear Mrs. Larpent is better than anyone, but then she 
is so much older. Flora May shall be my friend. I’ll make her 
call me Meta as soon as she comes. When will it be ? The day 
after to-morrow ? 

But little Meta watched in vain. Dr. May always came with 
either Richard or the groom, to drive him, and if Meta met him 
and hoped he would bring Flora next time, he only answered that 
Flora would like it very much, and he hoped soon to do so. 

The truth was, it was no such every day matter as Meta imagined. 
The larger carriage had been broken, and the only vehicle held only 
the doctor — his charioteer — and in a very minute appendage behind, 
a small son of the gardener, to open the gates, and hold the horse. 

The proposal had been one of those general invitations to be 
fulfilled at any time, and therefore easily set aside ; and Dr. May, 
though continually thinking he should like to take his girls to 
Abbotstoke, never saw the definite time for so doing ; and Flora 
herself, though charmed with Miss Rivers, and delighted with the 
prospect of visiting her, only viewed it as a distant prospect. 

There was plenty of immediate interest to occupy them at home, 
to say nothing of the increasing employment that Cocksmoor gave 
to thoughts, legs, and needles. There was the commencement of 
the half-year, when Tom’s school-boy life was to begin, and when it 
would be proved whether Norman were able to retain his elevation. 

Margaret had much anxiety respecting the little boy about to be 
sent into a scene of temptation. Her great confidence was in 
Richard, who told her that boys did many more wrong things than 
were known at home, and yet turned out very well, and that Tom 
would be sure to right himself in the end. Richard had been 
blameless in his whole school course, but though never partaking of 
the other boys’ evil practices, he could not form an independent 
estimate of character, and his tone had been a little hurt, by sharing 
the school public opinion of morality. He thought Stoneborough, 
and its temptations, inevitable, and only wished to make the best of 
it. Margaret was afraid to harass her, father, by laying the case 
before him. All her brothers had gone safely through the school, 
and it never occurred to her that it was possible that, if her father 
knew the bias of Tom’s disposition, he might choose, for the present, 
at least, some other mode of education. 

She talked earnestly to Tom, and he listened impatiently. There 
is an age when boys rebel against female rule, and are not yet 
softened by the chivalry of manhood, and Tom was at this time of 


rriE daisy chain. 


165 


life. He did not like to Tbe lectured by a sister, secretly disputed 
her right, and, proud of becoming a schoolboy, had not the generous 
deference for her weakness felt by his elder brothers ; he was all 
the time peeling a stick, as if to show that he was not attending, 
and he raised up his shoulder pettishly whenever she came to a 
mention of the religious duty of sincerity. She did not long con- 
tinue her advice, and, much disappointed and concerned, tried to 
console herself with hoping that he might have heeded more than 
he seemed to do. 

He was placed tolerably high in the school, and Norman, who 
had the first choice of fags, took him instead of Hector Ernescliffe, 
who had just passed beyond the part of the school liable to be 
fagged. He said he liked school, looked bright when he came 
home in the evenings, and the sisters hoped all was right. 

Everyone was just now anxiously watching Norman, especially 
his father, who strove in vain to keep back all manifestation of his 
earnest desire to see him retain his post. Resolutely did the Doc- 
tor refrain from asking any questions when the boys came in, but he 
could not keep his eyes from studying the face, to see whether it 
bore marks of mental fatigue, and from following him about the 
room, to discover whether he found it necessary, as he had done 
last autumn, to spend the evening in study. It was no small 
pleasure to see him come in with his hand full of horse-chestnut 
and hazel-buds, and proceed to fetch the microscope and botany 
books, throwing himself eagerly into the study of the wonders of 
their infant forms, searching deeply into them with Margaret, and 
talking them over with his father, who was very glad to promote 
the pursuit — one in which he had always taken great interest. 

Another night Dr. May was for a moment disturbed by seeing 
the sohool-books put out, but Norman had only some notes to com- 
pare, and while he did so, he was remarking on Flora’s music, and 
joining in the conversation so freely as to prove it was no labour to 
him. In truth, he was evidently quite recovered, entirely himself 
again, except that he was less boyish. He had been very lively 
and full of merry nonsense ; but his ardour for play had gone off 
with his high spirits, and there was a manliness of manner, and 
tone of mind, that made him appear above his real age. 

At the end of a fortnight he volunteered to tell his father that 
all was right. ‘ 1 am not afraid of not keeping my place,’ he said ; 

1 you were quite right, papa. I am more up to my work than I was 
ever before, and it comes to me quite fresh and pleasant. I don’t 
promise to get the Randall scholarship, if Forder and Cheviot stay 
on, but I can quite keep up to the mark in school work.’ 

1 That’s right,’ said Dr. May, much rejoiced. 1 Are you sure 
fou do it with ease, and without its haunting you at night ? ’ 

1 Oh, yes ; quite sure. I can’t think what has made Dr. Iloxton 


100 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


set us on in such easy things this time. It is very lucky for me, 
for one gets so much less time to oneself as dux.’ 

1 What ! with keeping order ? 5 

1 Aye,’ said N orman. ‘ I fancy they think they may take liberties 
because I am new and young. I must have my eye in all corners 
of the hall at once, and do my work by snatches, as I can.’ 

‘ Can you make them attend to you ? ’ 

1 Why, yes, pretty well, when it comes to the point — “ will you 
or will you not.” Cheviot is a great help, too, and has all the 
weight of being the eldest fellow among us.’ 

‘ But still you find it harder work than learning ? You had 
rather have to master the dead language than the live tongues ? ’ 

‘ A pretty deal,’ said Norman; then added, ‘ one knows what to 
be at with the dead, better than with the living ; they don’t make 
parties against one. I don’t wonder at it. It was very hard on 
some of those great fellows to have me set before them, but I do 
not think it is fair to visit it by putting up the little boys to all 
sorts of mischief.’ 

1 Shameful ! ’ said the doctor, warmly; 1 but never mind, Nor- 
man, keep your temper, and do your own duty, and you are man 
enough to put down such petty spite.’ 

‘ I hope I shall manage rightly,’ said Norman ; 1 but I shall be 
giad if I can get the Bandall and get away to Oxford ; school is 
not what it used to be, and if you don’t think me too young — ’ 

1 No, I don’t; certainly not. Trouble has made a man of you, 
Norman, and you are fitter to be with men than boys. In the 
meantime, if you can be patient with these fellows, you’ll be of 
great use where you are. If there had been anyone like you at the 
head of the school in my time, it would have kept me out of no end 
of scrapes. How does Tom get on ? he is not likely to fall into 
this set I trust.’ 

‘ I am not sure,’ said Norman ; 1 he does pretty well on the whole. 
Some of them began by bullying him; and that made him cling to 
Cheviot and Erneseliffe, and the better party ; but lately I have 
thought Anderson, junior, rather making up to him, and I don’t 
know whether they don’t think that tempting him over to them, 
would be the surest way of vexing me. I have an eye over him’ 
and I hope he may get settled into the steadier sort before next half.’ 

After a silence, Norman said; ‘ Papa, there is a thing I can’t 
settle in my own mind. Suppose there had been wrong things 
done when older boys, and excellent ones too, were at the head of 
the school, yet they never interfered, do you think I ought to let it 
go on ? ’ 

‘ Certainly not, or why is power given to you ? ’ 

‘So I thought,’ said Norman; ‘I can’t see it otherwise. I 
wish I could, for it will be horrid to set about it, and they’ll think 
it a regular shame in me to meddle. — 0! I know what I came into 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


167 


the study for ; I want you to be so kind as to lend me your pocket 
Greek Testament. I gave Harry my little one.’ 

‘ You are very welcome. What do you want it for ? ’ 

Norman coloured. * I met with a sermon the other day that 
recommended reading a bit of it every day, and I thought I should 
like to try, now the Confirmation is coming. One can always have 
some quiet by getting away into the cloister.’ 

‘ Bless you, my boy ! while you go on in this way, I have not 
much fear but that you’ll know how to manage.’ 

Norman’s rapid progress affected another of the household in an 
unexpected way. 

1 Margaret, my dear, I wish to speak to you,’ said Miss Winter, 
re-appearing when Margaret thought everyone was gone out walk- 
ing. She would have said, ‘ 1 am very sorry for it ’ — so ominous 
was the commencement — and her expectations were fulfilled when 
Miss Winter had solemnly seated herself, and taken out her netting. 
‘ I wish to speak to you about dear Ethel,’ said the governess ; ‘ you 
know how unwilling I always am to make any complaint, but I cannot 
be satisfied with her present way of going on.’ 

‘ Indeed,’ said Margaret. 1 1 am much grieved to hear this. I 
thought she had been taking great pains to improve.’ 

‘ So she was at one time. I would not by any means wish to 
deny it, and it is not of her learning that I speak, but of a hurried, 
careless way of doing everything, and an irritability at being in 
terfered with.’ 

Margaret knew how Miss Winter often tried Ethel’s temper, 
and was inclined to take her sister’s part. ‘ Ethel’s time is so fully 
occupied,’ she said. 

1 That is the very thing that I was going to observe, my dear. 
Her time is too much occupied, and my conviction is, that it is 
hurtful to a girl of her age.’ 

This was a new idea to Margaret, who was silent, longing to 
prove Miss Winter wrong, and not have to see poor Ethel pained 
by having to relinquish any of her cherished pursuits. 

1 You see there is that Cocksmoor,’ said Miss Winter. ‘You 
do not know how far off it is, my dear ; much too great a distance 
for a young girl to be walking continually in all weathers.’ 

‘ That’s a question for papa,’ thought Margaret. 

‘ Besides,’ continued Miss Winter, ‘ those children engross almost 
all her time and thoughts. She is working for them, preparing les- 
sons, running after them continually. It takes off her whole mind 
from her proper occupations, unsettles her, and I do think it is 
peyond what befits a young lady of her age.’ 

Margaret was silent. 

< In addition,’ said Miss Winter, ‘ she is at every spare moment 
busy with Latin and Greek, and I cannot think that to keep pace 
with a boy of Norman’s age and ability can be desirable for her.’ 


168 


THE DAISY CIIAIH. 


‘ It is a great deal,’ said Margaret, ‘ but — 5 

1 1 am convinced that she does more than is right/ continued 
Miss Winter. ‘ She may not feel any ill effects at present, but you 
may depend upon it, it will tell on her by-and-by. Besides, she 
does not attend to anything properly. At one time she was improv- 
ing in neatness and orderly habits. Now, you surely must have 
seen how much less tidy her hair and dress have been.’ 

‘ I have thought her hair looking rather rough, 5 said Margaret, 
disconsolately. 

‘ No wonder,’ said Miss Winter, ‘ for Flora and Mary tell me she 
hardly spends five minutes over it in the morning, and with a book 
before her the whole time. If I send her up to make it fit to be seen, 
I meet with looks of annoyance. She leaves her books in all parts of 
the school-room for Mary to put away, and her table drawer is one 
mass of confusion. Her lessons she does well enough, I own, though 
what I should call much too fast ; but have you looked at her work 
lately ? 5 

‘ She does not work very well, 5 said Margaret, who was at that 
moment, though Miss Winter did not know it, re-gathering a poor 
child’s frock that Ethel had galloped through with more haste than 
good speed. 

‘ She works a great deal worse than little Blanche, 5 said Miss Win- 
ter, 1 and though it may not be the fashion to say so in these days, I 
consider good needlework far more important than accomplishments. 
Well, then, Margaret, I should wish you only just to look at her 
writing. 5 

And Miss Winter opened a French exercise book, certainly con- 
taining anything but elegant specimens of penmanship. Ethel’s 
best writing was an upright, disjointed, niggle, looking more like 
G-reek than anything else, except where here and there it made 
insane efforts to become running-hand, and thereby lost its sole pre- 
vious good quality of legibility, while the lines waved about the 
sheet in almost any direction but the horizontal. The necessity 
she believed herself under of doing what Harry called writing with 
the end of her nose, and her always holding her pen with her fin- 
gers almost in the ink, added considerably to the difficulty of the 
performance. This being at her best, the worst may be supposed 
to be indescribable, when dashed off in a violent hurry, and consid- 
erably garnished with blots. Margaret thought she had seen the 
worst, and was sighing at being able to say nothing for it, when 
Miss Winter confounded her by turning a leaf, and showing it was 
possible to make a still wilder combination of scramble, niggle, 
scratch, and crookedness — and this was supposed to be an amended 
edition ! Miss Winter explained that Ethel had, in an extremely 
short time, performed an exercise in which no fault could be 
detected except the writing, which was pronounced to be too atro> 
cious to be shown up to M. Ballompro. On being desired to write 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


169 


it over again, she had obeyed with a very bad grace, and some mur- 
murs about Cocksmoor, and produced the second specimen, which, 
in addition to other defects, had some elisions from arrant careless- 
ness, depriving it of its predecessor’s merits of being good French. 

Miss Winter had been so provoked, that she believed this to be 
an effect of ill temper, and declared that she should certainly have 
kept Ethel at home to write it over again, if it had not so happened 
that Dr. May had proposed to walk part of the way with her and 
Richard, and the governess was unwilling to bring her into disgrace 
with him. Margaret was so grateful to her for this forbearance, 
that it disposed her to listen the more patiently to the same repre- 
sentations put in, what Miss Winter fancied, different forms. Mar- 
garet was much perplexed. She could not but see much truth in 
what Miss Winter said, and yet she could not bear to thwart Ethel, 
whom she admired with her whole heart ; and that dry experience, 
and prejudiced preciseness, did not seem capable of entering into her 
sister’s thirst for learning and action. When Miss Winter said 
Ethel would grow up odd, eccentric, and blue, Margaret was ready 
to answer that she would be superior to everyone ; and when the 
governess urged her to insist on Cocksmoor being given up, she felt 
impatient of that utter want of sympathy for the good work. 

All that evening Margaret longed for a quiet time to reflect, but 
it never came till she was in bed ; and when she had made up her 
mind how to speak to Ethel, it was five times harder to secure her 
alone. Even when Margaret had her in the room by herself, she 
looked wild and eager, and said she could not stay, she had some 
Thucydides to do. 

1 Won’t you stay with me a little while, quietly ? ’ said Marga- 
ret , 1 we hardly ever have one of our talks.’ 

‘ I didn’t mean to vex you, dear Margaret. I like nothing so 
well, only we are never alone, and I’ve no time.’ 

1 Pray do spare me a minute, Ethel, for I have something that 
I must say to you, and I am afraid you won’t like it — so do listen 
kindly.’ 

£ Oh ! ’ said Ethel, ‘ Miss Winter has been talking to you. I 
know she said she would tell you that she wants me to give up 
Cocksmoor. You aren’t dreaming of it, Margaret ! ’ 

1 Indeed, dear Ethel, I should be very sorry, but one thing I am 
sure of, that there is something amiss in your way of going on.’ 

‘ Did she show you that horrid exercise ? ’ 

£ Yes.’ 

Well, I know it was baddish writing, but just listen, Margaret. 
We promised six of the children to print them each a verse of a 
hymn on a card to learn. Ritchie did three, and then could not go 
on, for the book, that the others were in, was lost till last evening, 
and then he was writing for papa. So I thought I would do them 
before we went to Cocksmoor, and that I should squeeze time out 
8 


170 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


of the morning; but I got a bit of Sophocles that was so horridly 
hard, it ate up all my time, and I don’t understand it properly now ; 

I must get Norman to tell me. And that ran in my head, and 
made me make a mistake in my sum, and have to begin it again. 
Then, just as I thought I had saved time over the exercise, comes 
Miss Winter and tells me I must do it over again, and scolds me, 
besides, about the ink on my fingers. She would send me up at 
once to get it off, and I could not find nurse and her bottle of stuff 
for it, so that wasted ever so much more time, and I was so vexed 
that, really and truly, my hand shook, and I could not write any 
better.’ 

‘ No, I thought it looked as if you had been in one of your 
agonies.’ 

‘ And she thought I did it on purpose, and that made me angry, 
and so we got into a dispute, and away went all the little moment 
I might have had, and I was forced to go to Cocksmoor as a prom- 
ise breaker ! ’ 

‘ Don’t you think you had better have taken pains at arst ? ’ 

‘ Well, so I did with the sense, but I hadn’t time to look at the 
writing much.’ 

‘ You would have made better speed if you had.’ 

I Oh ! yes, I know I was wrong, but it is a great plague alto- 
gether. Really, Margaret, I shan’t get Thucydides done.’ 

‘ You must wait a little longer, please, Ethel, for I want to say 
to you that I am afraid you are doing too much, and that prevents 
you from doing things well, as you were trying to do last autumn.’ 

‘ You are not thinking of my not going to Cocksmoor ! ’ cried 
Ethel, vehemently. 

I I want you to consider what is to be done, dear Ethel. You 
thought, last autumn, a great deal of curing your careless habits, 
now you seem not to have time to attend. You can do a great deal 
very fast, I know, but isn’t it a pity to be always in a hurry ? ’ 

‘ It isn’t Cocksmoor that is the reason,’ said Ethel. 

‘ No : you did pretty well when you began, but you know that 
was in the holidays, when you had no Latin and Greek to do.’ 

‘ O but, Margaret, they won’t take so much time when I have 
once got over the difficulties, and see my way, but just now they 
have put Norman into such a frightfully difficult play, that I can 
hardly get on at all with it, and there’s a new kind of Greek verses, 
too, and I don’t make out from the book how to manage them. 
Norman showed me on Saturday, but mine won’t be right. When 
I’ve got over that, I shan’t be so hurried.’ 

1 But Norman will go on to something harder, I suppose.’ 

( I dare say I shall be able to do it.’ 

‘ Perhaps you might, but I want you to consider if you are not 
working beyond what can be good for anybody. You see Norman 
is much plevercr than most boys, and you are a year younger ; and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


171 


besides doing all his work at the head of the school, his whole 
business of the day, you have Cocksmoor to attend to, and your 
own lessons, besides reading all the books that come into the house. 
Now isn’t that more than is reasonable to expect any head and 
hands to do properly ? ’ 

4 But if I can do it ? 5 

‘But can you, dear Ethel? Aren’t you always racing from 
one thing to another, doing them by halves, feeling hunted, and 
then growing vexed ? ’ 

‘ 1 know I have been cross lately,’ said Ethel, ‘ but it’s the 
being so bothered.’ 

‘ And why are you bothered ? Isn’t it that you undertake too 
much ? ’ 

‘ What would you have me do ? ’ said Ethel, in an injured, un- 
convinced voice. ‘ Not give up my children ? ’ 

‘ No,’ said Margaret ; ‘ but don’t think me very unkind if I say, 
suppose you left off trying to keep up with Norman.’ 

4 Oh ! Margaret ! Margaret ! ’ and her eyes filled with tears. 
4 We have hardly missed doing the same every day since the first 
Latin grammar was put into his hands ! ’ 

‘ I know it would be very hard,’ said Margaret, but Ethel con- 
tinued, in a piteous tone, a little sentimental : 4 From hie hcec hoc 
up to Alcaics and beta Thukididou we have gone on together, and 
I can’t bear to give it up. I’m sure I can — ’ 

4 Stop, Ethel, I really doubt whether you can. Bo you know 
that Norman was telling papa, the other day, that it was very odd 
Br. Hoxton gave them such easy lessons.’ 

Ethel looked very much mortified. 

4 You see,’ said Margaret, kindly, 4 we all know that men have 
more power than women, and I suppose the time has come for Nor- 
man to pass beyond you. He would not be cleverer than anyone, 
if he could not do more than a girl at home.’ 

4 He has so much more time for it,’ said Ethel. 

4 That’s the very thing. Now consider, Ethel. His work, after 
he goes to Oxford, will be doing his very utmost — and you know 
what an utmost that is. If you could keep up with him at all, you 
must give your whole time and thoughts to it, and when you had 
done so — if you could get all the honours in the University — what 
would it come to ? You can’t take a first-class.’ 

4 1 don’t want one,’ said Ethel ; 4 1 only can’t bear not to do as 
Norman does, and I like Greek so much.’ 

4 And for that would you give up being a useful, steady daugh- 
ter and sister at home ? The sort of woman that dear mamma 
jrished to make you, and a comfort to papa.’ 

Ethel was silent, and large tears were gathering. 

4 You own that that is the first thing ? ’ 

4 Yes,’ said Ethel, faintly. 


172 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ And that it is wliat you fail in most; 9 ’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘ Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cock* 
moor, you knew those things could not be done without a sacrifice ? 

‘ Yes, but I didn’t think it would be this.’ 

Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down 
and sighed pitifully. Presently she said, ‘ Margaret, if you would 
only let me leave off that stupid old French, and horrid dull read- 
ing with Miss Winter, I should have plenty of time for everything ; 
and what does one learn by hearing Mary read poetry she can’t 
understand ? ’ 

‘You work, don’t you? But indeed, Ethel, don’t say that I 
can let you leave off anything. I don’t feel as if I had that au- 
thority. If it be done at all, it must be by papa’s consent, and if 
you wish me to ask him about it, I will, only I think it would vex 
Miss Winter ; and I don’t think dear mamma would have liked 
Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all the little common lady-like 
things.’ 

Ethel made two or three great gulps : ‘ Margaret, must I give 
up everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek ? ’ 

‘ I should think that would be a great pity,’ said Margaret. 

‘ If you were to give up the verse-making, and the trying to do as 
much as Norman, and fix some time in the day — half-an-hour, per- 
haps, for your Greek — I think it might do very well.’ 

‘ Thank you,’ said Ethel, much relieved ; ‘ I’m glad you don’t 
want me to leave it all off. I hope Norman won’t be vexed,’ she 
added, looking a little melancholy. 

But Norman had not by any means the sort of sentiment on the 
subject that she had: 1 Of course, you know, Ethel,’ said he, ‘it 
must have come to this some time or other, and if you find those 
verses too hard, and that they take up too much of your time, you 
had better give them up.’ 

Ethel did not like anything to be said to be too hard for her, 
and was very near pleading she only wanted time, but some recol- 
lection came across her, and presently she said, ‘ I suppose it is a 
wrong sort of ambition to want to learn more, in one’s own way, 
when one is told it is not good for one. I was just going to say 
I hated being a woman, and having these tiresome little trifles — my 
duty — instead of learning, which is yours, Norman.’ 

‘ I’m glad you did not,’ said Norman, ‘ for it would have been 
very silly of you; and I assure you, Ethel, it is really time for you 
to stop, or you would get into a regular learned lady, and be good 
for nothing. I don’t mean that knowing more than other people 
would make you so, but minding nothing else would.’ 

This argument from Norman himself, did much to reconcile 
Ethel’s mind to the sacrifice she had made ; and when she went to 
bed, she tried to work out the question in her own mind, whether 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


173 


her eagerness for classical learning was a wrong sort of ambition, to 
know what other girls did not, and whether it was right to crave 
for more knowledge than was thought advisable for her. She onlj 
bewildered herself, and went to sleep before she had settled any- 
thing, but that she knew she must make all give way to papa first, 
and, secondly, to Cocksmoor. 

Meanwhile Margaret had told her father what had passed. He 
was only surprised to hear that Ethel had kept up so long with 
Norman, and thought that it was quite right that she should not 
undertake so much, agreeing more entirely than Margaret had 
expected with Miss Winter’s view, that it would be hurtful to body 
as well as mind. 

I It is perfectly ridiculous to think of her attempting it ! ’ he 
said. 1 1 am glad you have put a stop to it.’ 

I I am glad I have,’ said Margaret ; ‘ and dear Ethel behaved 
so very well. If she had resisted, it would have puzzled me very 
much, I must have asked you to settle it. But it is very odd, papa, 
Ethel is the one of them all who treats me most as if I had real 
authority over her ; she lets me scold her, asks my leave, never 
seems to recollect for a moment how little older I am, and how 
much cleverer she is. I am sure I never should have submitted so 
readily. And that always makes it more difficult to me to direct 
her ; I don’t like to take upon me with her, because it seems wrong 
to have her obeying me, as if she were a mere child.’ 

1 She is a fine creature,’ said Dr. May, emphatically. 1 It just 
shows the fact, the higher the mind, the readier the submission. 
But you don’t mean that you have any difficulty with the others ? ’ 

‘ 0 no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially 
from me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that 
Ethel lays herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I 
am sure, though she does love learning, her real love is for good- 
ness, and for you, papa.’ 

Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she 
seen her father’s look of mournful pleasure. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

‘ O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscuro. 

11 is little sister doth his peril see, 

All playful as she sate, she grows demure, 

She finds full soon her wonted spirits tlee, 

She meditates a prayer to set him free.’ 

Shenstone. 

The setting sun shone into the great west window of the school at 
Stoneborough, on its bare walls, the master’s desks, the forms 
polished with use, and the square, inky, hacked and hewed chests, 
carved with the names of many generations of boys. 


L7d 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


About six or eight little boys were clearing away the books or 
papers that they, or those who owned them as fags, had left astray, 
and a good deal of talk and laughing was going on among them. 

‘ Ha ! ’ exclaimed one, 1 here has Harrison left his book behind him 
that he was showing us the gladiators in ! ’ and, standing by the 
third master’s desk, he turned oyer a page or two of Smith’s" Anti- 
quities, exclaiming, ‘ It is full of pictures — here’s an old man blow- 
ing the bellows — ’ 

‘ Let me see ! ’ cried Tom May, precipitating himself across the 
benches and over the desk, with so little caution, that there was an 
outcry* and, to his horror, he beheld the ink spilled over Mr. Har- 
rison’s book, while ‘ There, August ! you’ve been and done it ! ’ 
‘ You’ll catch it ! ’ resounded on all sides. 

‘ What good will staring with your mouth open do ! ’ exclaimed 
Edward Anderson, the eldest present. ‘ Here ! a bit of blotting 
paper this moment ! ’ 

Tom, dreadfully frightened, handed a sheet torn from an old 
paper-case that he had inherited from Harry, saying despairingly, 
‘ It won’t take it out, will it ? 5 

‘ No, little stupid head, but don’t you see, I’m stopping it from 
running down the edges, or soaking in. He won’t be the wiser till 
h? opens it again at that place.’ 

‘ When he does, he will,’ said the bewildered Tom. 

* Let him. It won’t tell tales.’ 

‘ He’s coming ! ’ cried another boy, ‘ he is close at the door.’ 

Anderson hastily shut the book over the blotting-paper, which he 
did not venture to retain in his hand, dragged Tom down from the 
desk, and was apparently entirely occupied with arranging his own 
box, when Mr. Harrison came in. Tom crouched behind the raised 
lid, quaking in every limb, conscious he ought to confess, but 
destitute of resolution to do so, and, in a perfect agony as the 
master went to the desk, took up the book, and carried it away, so 
unconscious, that Larkins, a great wag, only waited till his back 
was turned, to exclaim, ‘ Ha ! old fellow, you don’t know what 
you’ve got tnere ! ’ 

‘Hollo! May junior, will you never leave off staring?’ you 
won’t see a bit further for it,’ said Edward Anderson, shaking him 
by the ear; ‘come to your senses and know your friends.’ 

‘ He’ll open it ! ’ gasped Tom. 

‘ So he will, but I’d bet ninety to one, it is not at that page, or 
if he does, it won’t tell tales, unless, indeed, he happened to see 
you standing there, crouching and shaking. That’s the right way 
to bring him upon you.’ 

‘ But suppose he opens it, and knows who was in school ? ’ 

‘ What then ? D’ye think we can’t stand by each other, and 
keep our own counsel ? ’ 

‘ But the blotting-paper — suppose he knows that l ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 175 

There was a good laugh all round at this, ‘ as if Harrison knew 
everyone’s blotting-paper ! ’ 

‘ Yes, but Harry used to write his name all over his — see — and 
draw union-jacks on it.’ 

‘ If he did, the date is not there. Do you think the ink is 
going to say March 2nd ? Why should not J uly have done it last 
half?’ 

‘ July would have told if he had,’ said Larkins, * That’s no go.’ 

‘ Aye ! That’s the way — the Mays are all like girls — can’t keep 
a secret — not one of them. There, I’ve done more for you than 
ever one of them would have done — own it — and he strode up to 
Tom, and grasped his wrists, to for<e the confession from him.’ 

‘ But — he’ll ask when he finds it out — ’ 

‘ Let him. We know nothing about it. Don’t be coming the 
good boy over me like your brothers. That won’t do — I know 
whose eyes are not too short-sighted to read upside down.’ 

Tom shrank and looked abject, clinging to the hope that Mr. 
Harrison would not open the book for weeks, months, or years. 

But the next morning, his heart died within him, when he be- 
held the unfortunate piece of blotting-paper, displayed by Mr. Har- 
rison, with the inquiry whether anyone knew to whom it belonged, 
and what made it worse was, that his sight would not reach far 
enough to assure him whether Harry’s name was on it, and lie 
dreaded that Norman or Hector Ernescliffe should recognise the 
nautical designs. However, both let it pass, and no one through 
the whole school attempted to identify it. One danger was past, 
but the next minute Mr. Harrison opened his Smith’s Antiquities 
at the page where stood the black witness. Tom gazed round in 
despair, he could not see his brother’s face, but Edward Anderson, 
from the second fbrm, returned him a glance of contemptuous 
encouragement. 

‘ This book,’ said Mr, Harrison, ‘ was left in school for a quarter 
of an hour yesterday. When I opened it again, it was in this con- 
dition. Do any of you know how it happened ? ’ A silence, and 
he continued, ‘ Who was in school at the time ? Anderson, junior, 
can you tell me anything of it ? ’ 

• ‘No, Sir.’ 

‘ You know nothing of it ? ’ 

‘No, Sir.’ 

Cold chills crept over Tom, as Mr. Harrison looked round to 
refresh his memory. ‘ Larkins, do you know how this happened ? ’ 

‘ No, Sir,’ said Larkins, boldly, satisfying his conscience because 
he had not seen the manner of the overthrow. 

‘ Ernescliffe, were you there ? ’ 

‘ No, Sir.’ 

Tom’s timid heart fluttered in dim hope that he had been over 
looked, as Mr. Harrison paused, then said, ‘ Remember, it is con- 


176 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


cealment that is the evil, not the damage to the book. I shall 
have a good opinion ever after of a boy honest enough to confess. 
May junior, I saw you,’ he added, hopefully and kindly. ‘ Don’t 
be afraid to speak out, if you did meet with a mischance.’ 

Tom coloured and turned pale. Anderson and Larkins .grim- 
aced at him, to remind him that they had told untruths for his sake, 
and that he must not betray them. It was the justification he 
wanted ; he was relieved to fancy himself obliged to tell the direct 
falsehood, for which a long course of petty acted deceits had paved 
the way, for he was in deadly terror of the effects of truth. 

1 No, Sir.’ He could hardly believe he had said the words, or 
that they would be so readily accepted, for Mr. Harrison had only 
the impression that he knew who the guilty person was, and would 
not tell, and, therefore, put no more questions to him, but, after a 
few more vain inquiries, was baffled, and gave up the investigation. 

Tom thought he should have been very unhappy ; he had always 
heard that deceit was a heavy burthen, and would give continual 
stings, but he was surprised to find himself very comfortable on the 
whole, and able to dismiss repentance as well as terror. His many 
underhand ways with Richard had taken away the tenderness of his 
conscience, though his knowledge of what was right was clear ; and 
he was quite ready to accept the feeling prevalent at Stoneborough, 
that truth was not made for school-boys. 

The axiom was prevalent, but not universal, and parties were 
running high. Norman May, who, as head boy, had, in play-hours, 
the responsibility, and almost the authority of a master, had taken 
higher ground than was usual even with the well-disposed ; and felt 
it his duty to check abuses and malpractices that his predecessors 
had allowed. His friend, Cheviot, and the right-minded set, main- 
tained his authority with all their might ; but Harvey Anderson 
regarded his interference as vexatious, always took the part of the 
offenders, and opposed him in every possible way, thus gathering as 
his adherents not only the idle and mischievous, but the weak and 
mediocre, and, among this set, there was a positive bitterness of 
feeling to May, and all whom they considered as belonging to him. 

In shielding Tom May and leading him to deceive, the younger 
Anderson had gained a conquest — in him the Mays had fallen from 
that pinnacle of truth which was a standing reproach to the average 
Stoneborough code — and, from that time, he was under the especial 
patronage of his friend. He was taught the most ingenious arts of 
saying a lesson without learning it, and of showing up other people’s 
tasks ; whispers and signs were directed to him to help him out of 
difficulties, and he was sought out and put forward whenever a for- 
bidden pleasure was to be enjoyed by stealth. These were his 
stimulants under a heavy bondage ; he was teased and frightened, 
bullied and tormented, whenever it was the fancy of Ned Anderson 
and his associates to make his timidity their sport; he was scorned 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


177 


and ill-treated, and driven, by bodily terror, into acts alarming to 
his conscience, dangerous in their consequences, and painful in the 
perpetration ; and yet, among all his sufferings, the little coward 
dreaded nothing so much as truth, though it would have set him 
free at once from this wretched tyranny. 

Excepting on holidays, and at hours when the town-boys were 
allowed to go home, there were strict rules confining all except the 
sixth form to their bounds, consisting of two large courts, and an 
extensive field bordered by the river and the road. On the oppo- 
site side of the bridge there was a turnpike gate, where the keeper 
exposed stalls of various eatables, very popular among the boys, 
chiefly because they were not allowed to deal there. G-inger-beer 
could also be procured, and there were suspicions, that the bottles so 
called, contained something contraband. 

f August,’ said Norman, as they were coming home from school 
one evening, 1 did I see you coming over the bridge ? ’ 

Tom would not answer. 

‘ So you have been at Ballhatchet’s gate ? I can’t think what 
could take you there. If you want tarts, I am sure poor old 
Betty’s are just as good. What made you go there ? ’ 

‘ Nothing,’ said Tom. 

‘ Well, mind you don’t do it again, or I shall have to take you 
in hand, which I shall be very sorry to do. That man is a regular 
bad character, and neither my father nor Dr. Hoxton would have 
one of us have anything to do with him, as you know.’ 

Tom was in hopes it was over, but Norman went on. 1 I am 
afraid you are getting into a bad way. Why won’t you mind what 
I have told you plenty of times before, that no good comes of going 
after Ned Anderson, and Axworthy, and that set. What were you 
doing with them to-day ? ’ but, receiving no answer, he went on. 
‘ You always sulk when I speak to you. I suppose you think I 
have no right to row you, but I do it to save you from worse. You 
can’t never be found out.’ This startled Tom, but Norman had no 
suspicion. ‘ If you go on, you will get into some awful scrape, and 
papa will be grieved. I would not, for all the world, have him put 
out of heart about you. Think of him, Tom, and try to keep 
straight.’ Tom would say nothing, only reflecting that his elder 
brother was harder upon him than anyone else would be, and Nor- 
man grew warmer. ‘ If you let Anderson junior get hold of you 
and teach you his tricks, you’ll never be good for anything. He 
seems good-natured now, but he will turn against you, as he did 
with Harry. I know how it is, and you had better take my word, 
and trust to qie and straight-forwardness, when you get into a mess.’ 

1 I’m in no scrape,’ said Tom, so doggedly, that Norman lost 
patience, and spoke with more displeasure. ‘ You will be then, if 
you go out of bounds, and run Anderson’s errands, and shirk work. 
You’d better take care. It is my place to keep order, and I can’t 


178 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


let you off for being my brother ; so remember, if I catch you going 
to Ballhatchet’s again, you may make sure of a licking.’ 

So the warning closed — Tom more alarmed at the aspect of 
right, which he fancied terrific, and Norman with some compunc- 
tion at having lost temper and threatened, when he meant to have 
gained him by kindness. 

Norman recollected his threat with a qualm of dismay when, at 
the end of the week, as he was returning from a walk with Cheviot, 
Tom darted out of the gate-house. He was flying across the bridge, 
with something under his arm, when Norman laid a detaining hand 
on his collar, making a sign at the same time to Cheviot to leave them. 

‘ What are you doing here ? ’ said Norman, sternly, marching 
Tom into the field. 1 So you’ve been there again. What’s that 
under your jacket ? ’ 

1 Only — only what I was sent for,’ and he tried to squeeze it 
under the flap. 

1 What is it? a bottle — ’ 

‘ Only — only a bottle of ink.’ 

Norman seized it, and gave Tom a fierce angry shake, but the 
indignation was mixed with sorrow. 1 0 Tom, Tom, these fellows 
have brought you a pretty pass. Who would have thought of such 
a thing from us ! ’ 

Tom cowered, but felt only terror. 

‘ Speak truth,’ said Norman, ready to shake it out of him ; 1 is 
this for Anderson junior ? ’ 

Under those eyes flashing with generous, sorrowful wrath, he 
dared not utter another falsehood, but Anderson’s threats chained 
him, and he preferred his thraldom to. throwing himself on the 
mercy of his brother who loved him. He would not speak. 

1 X am glad it is not for yourself,’ said Norman ; ‘ but do you 
remember what I said, in case I found you there again ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! don’t, dont ! ’ cried the boy. 1 1 would never have gone 
if they had not made me.’ 

‘ Made you ? ’ said Norman, disdainfully, ‘ how ? ’ 

‘ They would have thrashed me — they pinched my fingers in 
the box — they pulled my ears — Oh, don’t — ’ 

‘ Poor little fellow !■’ said Norman ; ‘ but it is your own fault. 
If you won’t keep with me, or Ernescliffe, of course they will bully 
you. But I must not let you off — I must keep my word ! ’ Tom 
cried, sobbed, and implored in vain. ‘ I can’t help it,’ he said, 
‘ and now, don’t howl ! I had rather no one knew it. It will soon 
be over. I never thought to have this to do to one of us.’ Tom 
roared and struggled, till, releasing him, he said, ‘ There, that will 
do. Stop bellowing, I was obliged, and I can’t have hurt you much, 
have I ? ’ he added more kindly, while Tom went on crying, and 
turning from him. ‘ It is nothing to care about, I am sure, look 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 179 

up ; and he pulled down his hands. ‘ Say you are sorry — speak 
the truth — keep with me, and no one shall hurt you again.’ 

V ery different this from Tom’s chosen associates ; but he was still 
obdurate, sullen, and angry, and would not speak, nor open his 
heart to those kind words. After one more, 1 1 could not help it, 
Tom, you’ve no business to be sulky,’ Norman took up the bottle, 
opened it, smelt, and tasted, and was about to throw it into the 
river, when Tom exclaimed, 1 0 don’t, don’t ! what will they do to 
me ? give it to me ! ’ 

1 Did they give you the money to pay for it ? ’ 

‘ Yes, let me have it.’ 

1 How much was it ? ’ 

‘ Fourpence.’ 

1 I’ll settle that,’ and the bottle splashed in the river. ‘ Now 
then, Tom, don’t brood on it any more. Here’s a chance for you 
of getting quit of their errands. If you will keep in my sight, I’ll 
take care no one bullies you, and you may still leave off these dis- 
graceful tricks, and do well.’ 

But Tom’s evil spirit whispered that Norman had beaten him, 
that he should never have any diversion again, and that Anderson 
would punish him ; and there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing 
that his perverse silence really distressed his brother. 

1 If you will go on this way, I can’t help it, but you’ll be sorry 
some day,’ said Norman, and he walked thoughtfully on, looking 
back to see whether Tom were following, as he did slowly, meditat- 
ing on the way, how he should avert his tyrant’s displeasure. 

Norman stood for a moment at the door surveying the court, 
then walked up to a party of boys, and laid his hand on the shoulder 
of one, holding a silver fourpence to him. ‘ Anderson junior,’ said 
he, ‘ there’s your money. I am not going to let Stoneborough school 
be turned into a gin palace. I give you notice, it is not to be. 
Now, you are not to bully May junior, for telling me. He did not, 

I found him out.’ 

Leaving Anderson to himself he looked for Tom, but not seeing 
him, he entered the Cloister, for it was the hour when he was used 
to read there, but he could not fix his mind. He w<?nt to the bench 
where he had lain, on the examination-day, and kneeling on it, 
looked out on the green grass where the graves were. ‘ Mother ! 
Mother ! ’ he murmured, 1 have I been harsh to your poor little 
tender sickly boy ? I couldn’t help it. Oh ! if you were but here ! 
We are all going wrong ! What shall I do ? How should Tom be 
kept from this evil ? — it is ruining him ! mean, false, cowardly, sullen 
— all that is worst — and your son — Oh ! Mother ! and all I do only 
makes him shrink more from me. It will break my father’s heart, 
and you will not be there to comfort him.’ 

Norman covered his face with his hands, and a fit of bitter grief 
came over him. But his sorrow was now not what it had been before 


180 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


his father’s resignation had tempered it, and soon it turned to 
prayer, resolution, and hope. 

He would try again to reason quietly with him, when the alarm 
of detection and irritation should have gone off, and he sought for 
tho occasion ; but, alas ! Tom had learnt to look on all reproof as 
‘ rowing,’ and considered it as an additional injury from a brother, 
who according to the Anderson view, should have connived at his 
offences, and turned a deafened ear and dogged countenance to all 
he said. The foolish boy sought after the Andersons still more, and 
Norman became more dispirited about him, greatly missing Harry, 
that constant companion and follower, who would have shared his 
perplexities, and removed half of them, in his own part of the school, 
by the influence of his high, courageous, and truthful spirit. 

In the meantime Richard was studying hard at home, with 
greater hopefulness and vigour than he had ever thrown into his 
work before. ‘ Suppose,’ Ethel had once said to him, ‘ that when 
you are a Clergyman, you could be Curate of Cocksmoor, when 
there is a church there.’ 

‘When?’ said Richard, smiling at the presumption of the 
scheme, and yet it formed itself into a sort of definite hope. Perhaps 
they might persuade Mr. Ramsden to take him as a Curate with a 
view to Cocksmoor, and this prospect, vague as it was, gave an object 
and hope to his studies. Everyone thought the delay of his exami- 
nation favourable to him, and he now read with a determination to 
succeed. Dr. May had offered to let him read with Mr. Harrison, 
but Richard thought he was getting on pretty well, with the help 
Norman gave him ; for it appeared that ever since Norman’s return 
from London, he had been assisting Richard, who was not above 
being taught by a younger brother ; while on the other hand, Nor- 
man, much struck by his humility, would not for the world have pub- 
lished that he was fit to act as his elder’s tutor. 

One evening, when the two boys came in from school, Tom gave 
a great start, and, pulling Mary by the sleeve, whispered, ‘ How 
came that book here ? ’ 

‘ It is Mr. Harrison’s. 

‘Yes, I know, but how came it here ? ’ 

‘ Richard borrowed it to look out something, and Ethel brought it 
down.’ 

A little re-assured, Tom took up an exciting story-book and 
ensconsed himself by the fire, but his agonies were great during the 
ensuing conversation. 

‘ Norman,’ Ethel was exclaiming in delight, ‘ do you know this 
book ? ’ 

‘ Smith ? Yes, it is in the school library.’ 

‘ There’s everything in it that one wants, I do believe. Here is 
such an account of ancient galleys — I never knew how they managed 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


181 


their banks of roweis before — Oh ! and the Greek houses — look at 
the pictures too.’ 

‘ Some of them are the same as Mr. Rivers’ gems,’ said Norman, 
standing behind her, and turning the leaves, in search of a favourite 

‘ Oh ! what did I see ? is that ink ? ’ said Flora, from the op- 
posite side of the table. 

1 Yes, didn’t you hear?’ said Ethel. ‘Mr. Harrison told 
Ritchie when he borrowed it, that unluckily one day this spring he 
left it in school, and some of the boys must have - upset an inkstand 
over it ; but, though he asked them all round, each denied it. How 
I should hate for such things to happen ! and it was a prize book too.’ 

While Ethel spoke she opened the marked page, to show the ex- 
tent of the calamity, and as she did so Mary exclaimed, ‘ Hear me ! 
how funny ! why, how did Harry’s blotting-paper get in there ? ’ 

Tom shrank into nothing, set his teeth, and pinched his fingers, 
ready to wish they were on Mary’s throat, more especially as the 
words made some sensation. Richard and Margaret exchanged 
looks, and their father, who had been reading, sharply raised his 
eyes and said, ‘ Harry’s blotting-paper ! How do you know that, 
Mary ? ’ 

‘ It is Harry’s,’ said she, all unconscious, ‘ because of that 
anchor up in one corner, and the union-jack in the other. Don’t 
you see, Ethel ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Ethel, ‘ nobody drew that but Harry.’ 

‘ Aye, and there are his buttons,’ said Mary, much amused and 
delighted with these relics of her beloved Harry. ‘ Don’t you re- 
member one day last holidays, papa desired Harry to write and ask 
Mr. Ernescliffe what clothes he ought to have for the naval school, 
and all the time he was writing the letter, he was drawing sailor’s 
buttons on his blotting-paper. I wonder how ever it got into Mr. 
Harrison’s book ! ’ 

Poor Mary’s honest wits did not jump to a conclusion quite so 
fast as other people’s, and she little knew what she was doing, when, 
as a great discovery, she exclaimed, ‘I know! Harry gave his 
paper-case to Tom. That’s the way it got to school ! ’ 

‘ Tom ! ’ exclaimed his father, suddenly and angrily, ‘ where aro 
you going ? ’ 

< To bed,’ muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A 
dead silence of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from 
one to the other, mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at 
her father’s loud voice, and at Tom’s trembling confusion. The 
stillness lasted for some moments, and was first broken by Flora, 
as if she had caught at a probability. ‘ Some one might have used 
the first blotting-paper that came to hand.’ 

(■ Come here, Tom,’ said the Doctor, in a voice not loud, but 
trembling with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder. 


182 


TILE DAISY CHAIN. 


Look in my face.’ Tom liung his head, and his father put hij 
hand under his chin, and raised the pale terrified face. 

‘ Don’t be afraid to tell ns the nmaning of this. If any of your 
friends have done it, we will keep your secret. Look up, and speak 
out. How did your blotting-paper come there ? 5 

Tom had been attempting his formei system of silent sullen 
ness, but there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate 
him, and in his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, 
he burst out into a violent fit of crying. 

‘ I can’t have you roaring here to distress Margaret,’ said Dr. 
May. ‘ Come into the study with me.’ 

But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and 
a screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried 
into the study by his brothers, and there left with his father. 
Mary, meantime, dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some 
way, she was the cause, had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing 
inconsolably, as she begged to know what was the matter, and why 
papa was angry with Tom — had she made him so ? 

Margaret caressed and soothed her, to the best of her ability, 
trying to persuade her .that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better 
for him it should be known, and assuring her that no one could 
think her unkind, nor a tell-tale ; then dismissing her to bed, and 
Mary was not unwilling to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom 
again, only begging in a whisper to Ethel, ‘ that, if dear Tom had 
not done it, she would come and tell her.’ 

1 1 am afraid there is no hope of that ! ’ sighed Ethel, as the 
door closed on Mary. 

1 After all,’ said Flora, ‘ he has not said anything. If he has 
only done it, and not confessed, that is not so bad — it is only the 
usual fashion of boys.’ 

I Has he been asked ? Did he deny it ? ’ said Ethel, looking in 
Norman’t> face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and 
she only received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment 
Dr. May called him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on 
the sofa, and looked very mournful, Richard stood by the fire with- 
out moving limb or feature, Flora worked fast, and Ethel leant 
back on an arm-chair, biting the end of a paper-knife. 

The Doctor and Norman came back together. ‘ 1 have sent 
him up to bed,’ said Dr. May. ‘ I must take him to Harrison to- 
morrow morning. It is a terrible business ! ’ 

i Has he confessed it ? ’ said Margaret. 

I I can hardly call such a thing a confession — I wormed it out 
bit by bit — I could not tell whether he was telling truth or not, till 
I called Norman in.’ 

1 But he has not said anything more untrue — ’ 

‘ Yes, he has though ! ’ said Dr. May, indignantly. ‘ He said 
Ned Anderson put the paper there, and had been taking up the ink 


HIE DAISY CHAIN. 


183 


with it — ’twas his doing — then when I came to cross-examine him 
I found that though Anderson did take up the ink, it was Tom 
himself who knocked it down — I never heard anything like it — I 
never could have believed it ! ’ 

‘ It must all be Ned Anderson’s doing ! ’ cried Flora. ‘ They 
are enough to spoil anybody.’ 

* 1 am afraid they have done him a great deal of harm,’ said 
Norman. 

‘ And what have you been about all the time ’ exclaimed the 
Doctor, too keenly grieved to be just. ‘ I should have thought that 
with you at the head of the school, the child might have been kept 
out of mischief ; but there have you been going your own way, and 
leaving him to be ruined by the very worst set of boys ! ’ 

Norman’s colour rose with the extreme pain this unjust accusa 
tion caused him, and his voice, though low, was not without irrita 
tion. I have tried. I have not done as much as I ought, perhaps 
but — ’ 


1 No, I think not, indeed ! ’ interrupted his father. 1 Sending a 
boy there, brought up as he had been, without the least tendency to 
deceit — ’ 

Here no one could see Norman’s burning cheeks, and brow bent 
downwards in the effort to keep back an indignant reply, without 
bursting out in exculpation; and Richard looked up, while the 
three sisters all at once began, ‘ 0 no, no, papa — ’ and left Margaret 
to finish — 1 Poor little Tom had not always been quite sincere.’ 

‘ Indeed ! and why was I left to send him to school without 
knowing it ? The place of all others to foster deceit.’ 

1 It was my fault, papa,’ said Margaret. 

1 And mine,’ put in Richard ; and she continued, ‘ Ethel told us 
we were very wrong, and I wish we had followed her advice. It 
was by far the best but we were afraid of vexing you.’ 

I Everyone seems to have been combined to hide what they 
ought not ! ’ said Dr. May, though speaking to her much more softly 
than to Norman, to whom he turned angrily again. ‘ Pray how 
came you not to identify this paper ? ’ 

I I did not know it,’ said Norman, speaking with difficulty. 

1 He ought never to have been sent to school,’ said the Doctor, 
— ■ that tendency was the very worst beginning.’ 

‘ It was a great pity; I was very wrong,’ said Margaret, in 
great concern. 

i I did not mean to blame you, my dear,’ said her father, affec- 
tionately. 1 I know you only meant to act for the best, but — ’ and 
he put his hand over his face, and then came the sighing groan, 
which pained Margaret ten thousand times more than reproaches, 
and which, in an instant, dispersed all the indignation burning 
within Norman, though the pain remained at his father’s thinking 


184 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


him guilty of neglect, but he did not like, at that moment, to speak 
in self-justification. 

After a short space, Dr. May desired to hear what were the de- 
ceptions to which Margaret had alluded, and made Norman tell 
what he knew of the affair of the blotted book. Ethel spoke hope- 
fully when she had heard it. ‘ Well, do you know, I think he will 
do better now. You see, Edward made him conceal it, and he has 
been going on with it on his mind, and in that boy’s power ever 
since ; but now it is cleared up and confessed, he will begin afresh 
and do better. Don’t you think so, Norman ? don’t you, papa ? ’ 

1 1 should have more hope, if I had seen anything like confession 
or repentance,’ said Dr. May; ‘but that provoked me more than 
all — I could only perceive that he was sorry to be found out, and 
afraid of punishment.’ 

‘ Perhaps, when he has recovered the first fright, he will come 
to his better self,’ said Margaret ; for she guessed, what indeed was 
the case, that the Doctor’s anger on this first shock of the discovery 
of the fault, he most abhorred, had been so great, that a fearful 
cowering spirit would be completely overwhelmed; and, as there 
had been no sorrow shown for the fault, there had been none ol 
that softening and relenting that won so much love and confi- 
dence. 

Everyone felt that talking only made them more unhappy, they 
tried to return to their occupations, and so passed the time till night. 
Then, as Richard was carrying Margaret upstairs, Norman lingered 
to say, ‘ Papa, I am very sorry you should think I neglected Tom. 
I dare say I might have done better for him, but, indeed, I have tried. 

‘ I am sure you have* Norman. I spoke hastily, my boy — you 
will not think more of it. When a thing like this comes on a man, 
lie hardly knows what he says.’ 

‘ If Harry were here,’ said Norman, anxious to turn from the 
real loss and grief, as well as to talk away that feeling of being 
apologized to, ‘ it would all do better. He would make a link with 
Tom, but I have so little, naturally, to do with the second form, 
that it is not easy to keep him in sight.’ 

‘ Yes, yes, I know that very well. It is no one’s fault but my 
own ; I should not have sent him there without knowing him better. 
But you see how it is, Norman — I have trusted to her, till I have 
grown neglectful, and it is well if it is not the ruin of him ! ’ 

‘ Perhaps he will take a turn, as Ethel says,’ answered Norman, 
cheerfully. ‘ Good night, papa.’ 

‘ I have a blessing to be thankful for in you, at least,’ murmured 
the Doctor to himself. ‘ What other young fellow of that age and 
spirit would have borne so patiently with my injustice ? Not I, I 
am sure ! a fine father I show myself to these poor children — neg- 
lect, helplessness, temper — 0 Maggie ! ’ 

Margaret had so bad a headache, the next day, that she could 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


185 


not come down stairs. The punishment was, they heard, a flogging 
at the time, and an imposition so long, that it was likely to occupy 
a large portion of the {day-hours till the end of the half year. 
His father said, and Norman silently agreed, 4 a very good thing, it 
will keep him out of mischief;’ but Margaret only wished she could 
learn it for him, and took upon herself all the blame from beginning 
to end. She said little to her father, for it distressed him to see 
her grieved ; he desired her not to dwell on the subject, caressed 
her, called her his eomfort and support, and did all he could to 
console her, but it was beyond his power ; her sisters, by listening 
to her, only made her worse. 4 Hear, dear papa,’ she exclaimed, 

4 how kind he is ! But he can never depend upon me again — I have 
been the ruin of my poor little Tom.’ 

4 AYell,’ said Bichard, quietly, 4 1 can’t see why you should put 
yourself into such a state about it.’ 

This took Margaret by surprise. 4 Have not I done very wrong, 
and perhaps hurt Tom for life ? ’ 

4 1 hope not,’ said Bichard. 4 You and I made a mistake, but 
it does not follow that Tom would have kept out of this scrape, if 
we had told my father our notion.’ 

4 It would not have been on my conscience,’ said Margaret — 
4 he would not have sent him to school.’ 

4 1 don’t know that,’ said Bichard, 4 At any rate we meant to 
do right, and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can’t 
tell why you go and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it 
is. The boy has done very wrong, but people get cured of such 
things in time, and it is nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere 
child of eight years old. You did not teach him deceit.’ 

4 No, but I concealed it — papa is disappointed, when he thought 
he could trust me.’ 

4 Well ! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes,’ 
said Bichard, in his sober tone. 

4 Self-sufficiency ! ’ exclaimed Margaret, 4 that has been the root 
of all ! Ho you know, Bitchie, I believe I was expecting that I 
could always judge rightly.’ 

4 You generally do,’ said Bichard ; 4 no one else could do half 
what you do.’ 

4 So you have said, papa, and all of you, till you have spoilt me. 
I have thought it myself, Bitchie.’ 

4 It is true,’ said Bichard. 

4 But then, said Margaret, 4 1 have grown to think much of it, 
and not like to be interfered with. I thought I could manage by 
myself, and when I said I would not worry papa, it was half be- 
cause I liked the doing and settling all about the children myself. Oh ! 
if it could have been visited in any way but by poor Tom’s faults ! ’ 

4 Well,’ said Bichard, 4 if you felt so, it was a pity, though I never 
should have guessed it. But you see you will never feel so again, and 


186 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


as Tom is only one, and there are nine to govern, it is all for tlia 
best.’ 

His deliberate' common sense made her laugh a little, and she 
owned he might be right. ‘It is a good lesson against my love of 
being first. But indeed it is difficult — papa can so little bear to 
be harassed.’ 

‘ He could n)t at first, but now he is strong and well, it is different.’ 

‘He looks terribly thin and ‘worn still,’ sighed Margaret, ‘so 
much older ! ’ 

‘ Aye, I think he will never get back his young looks ; but ex- 
cept his weak arm, he is quite well.’ 

‘ And then his — his quick way of speaking may do harm.’ 

‘ Yes, that was what I feared for Tom,’ said llichard, ‘ and there 
was the mistake. I see it now. My father always is right in the 
main, though he is apt to frighten one at first, and it is what ought 
to be, that he should rule his own house. But now, Margaret, it is silly 
to worry about it any more — let me fetch baby, and don’t think of it.’ 

And Margaret allowed his reasonableness, and let herself be 
comforted. After all, Bichard’s solid soberness had more influence 
over her than anything else. 


CHAP TEH XX. 


4 Think how simple things and lowly, 

Have a part in Nature’s plan, 

How the great hath small beginnings, 

And the child will be a man. 

Little efforts work great actions, 

Lessons in our childhood taught 
Mould the spirit and the temper 
Whereby blessed deeds are wrought. 

Cherish, then, the gifts of childhood, 

Use them gently, guard them well, 

For their future growth and greatness 
Who can measure, who can tell! ’ 

Moral Songs. 

The first shock of Tom’s misdemeanor passed away, though it still 
gave many an anxious thought to such of the family as felt respon- 
sible for him. 

The girls were busily engaged in preparing an Easter feast for 
Cocksmoor. Mr. Wilmot was to examine the scholars, and buns and 
tea were provided, in addition to which Ethel designed to make a 
present to everyone — a great task, considering that the Cocksmoor 
funds were reserved for absolute necessaries, and were at a very low 
ebb. So that twenty-five gifts were to be composed out of nothing ! 

There was a grand turn-out of drawers of rubbish, all over 
Margaret, raising such a cloud of dust, as nearly choked her. What 
cannot rubbish and willing hands effect! Envelopes and wafer 
boxes were ornamented with pictures, bags, needle-cases, and pin 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


187 


cushions, beautiful balls, tippets, both of list and gay print, and 
even sun-bonnets and pinafores were contrived, to the supreme im 
portance and delight of Mary and Blanche, who found it as good 
or better than play, and ranged their performances in rows, till the 
room looked liked a bazaar. To provide for boys was more diffi- 
cult ; but Bichard mended old toys, and repaired the frames of 
slates, and Norman’s contribution of half-a-crown bought mugs, 
marbles, and penny knives, and there were even hopes that some- 
thing would remain for bodkins, to serve as nozzles to the bellows, 
which were the pride of Blanche’s heart. 

Never were Easter gifts the source of more pleasure to the 
givers, especially when the nursery establishment met Dr. Hoxton 
near the pastry-cook’s shop, and he bestowed on Blanche a packet 
of variegated sugar-plums, all of which she literally poured out at 
Ethel’s feet, saying, ‘ 1 don’t want them. Only let me have one for 
Aubrey, because he is so little. All the rest are for the poor chil- 
dren on Cocksmoor.’ 

After this, Margaret declared that Blanche must be allowed to 
buy. the bodkins, and give her bellows to Jane Taylor, the only 
Cocksmoor child she knew, and to whom she always destined in 
turn every gift that she thought most successful. 

So Blanche went with Flora to the toy-shop, and there fell in 
love with a little writing-box, that so eclipsed the bellows, that she 
tried to persuade Flora to buy it for Jane Taylor, to be kept till 
she could write, and was much disappointed to hear that it was out 
of the question. Just then, a carriage stopped, and from it stepped 
the pretty little figure of Meta Bivers. 

‘ Oh ! how do you ? How delightful to meet you ! I was wonder- 
ing if we should ! Little Blanche too ! ’ kissing her, ‘ and here’s 
Mrs. Larpent — Mrs. Larpent — Miss Flora May. How is Miss May ? ’ 

This was all uttered in eager delight, and Fffira, equally pleased, 
answered the inquiries. ‘ 1 hope you are not in a hurry,’ proceeded 
Meta, ‘ 1 want your advice. You know all about schools, don’t 
you ? I am come to get some Easter presents for our children, 
and I am sure you can help me.’ 

‘Are the children little or big?’ asked Flora. 

‘ Oh ! all sorts and sizes. I have some books for the great sen- 
sible ones, and some stockings and shoes for the tiresome stupid ones, 
but there are some dear little pets that I want nice things for. 
There — there’s a doll that looks just fit for little curly-headed 
Annie Langley, don’t you think so, Mrs. Larpent ? ’ 

The price of the doll was a shilling, and there were quickly 
added to it, boxes of toys, elaborate bead- work pincushions, polished 
blue and green boxes, the identical writing-case — even a small 
Noah’s ark. Meta hardly asked the prices, which certainly were 
not extravagant, since she had nearly twenty articles for little more 
than a pound 


188 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ Papa lias given me a benefaction of £5 for my school-gifts, 
said she, * is not that charming ? I wish you would come to the 
feast. Now do ! It is on Easter Tuesday. Won’t you come ? ’ 

‘ Thank you, I am afraid we can’t. I should like it very much. 

‘ You never will come to me. You have no compassion.’ 

1 We should enjoy coming very much. Perhaps, in the summer, 
when Margaret is better.’ 

‘ Could not she spare any of you ? W ell, I shall talk to papa, 
and make him talk to Dr. May. Mrs. Larpent will tell you I al- 
ways get my way. Don’t I ? Good-bye. See if I don’t.’ 

She departed, and Flora returned to her own business; but 
Blanche’s interest was gone. Dazzled by the more lavish gifts, she 
looked listlessly and disdainfully at bodkins three for twopence. ‘I 
wish I might have bought the writing-box for Jane Taylor ! Why 
does not papa give us money to get pretty things for the children ? 
said she, as soon as they came out. 

‘ Because he is not so rich as Miss Bivers’s papa.’ — Flora was 
interrupted by meeting the Miss Andersons, who asked, 1 Was not 
that carriage Mr. Bivers’s of Abbotstoke Grange ? ’ 

‘ Yes. We like Miss Bivers very much,’ said Flora, resolved to 
show that she was acquainted. 

‘ Oli ! do you visit her ? I knew he was a patient of Dr. May.’ 
Flora thought there was no need to tell that the only call had been 
owing to the rain, and continued, ‘ She has been begging us to come 
to her school feast, but I do not think we can manage it.’ 

1 Oh ! indeed, the Grange is very beautiful, is it not ? ’ 

‘ Very,’ said Flora. ‘ Good morning.’ 

Flora had a little uneasiness in her conscience, but it was satis- 
factory to have put down Louisa Anderson, who never could aspire 
to an intimacy with Miss Bivers. Her little sister looked up — 
1 Why, Flora, have you seen the Grange ? ’ 

1 No, but papa and Norman said so.’ 

And Blanche showed that the practical lesson on the pomps of 
the world was not lost on her, by beginning to wish they were as 
rich as Miss Bivers. Flora told her it was wrong to be discontented, 
but the answer was, 1 1 don’t want it for myself, I want to have 
pretty things to give away.’ 

And her mind could not be turned from the thought by any at- 
tempt of her sister. Even when they met Dr. May coming out of the 
hospital, Blanche renewed the subject. She poured out the cata- 
logue of Miss Bivers’s purchases, making appealing attempts at 
looking under his spectacles into his eyes, and he perfectly under- 
stood the tenor of her song. 

1 I have had a sight, too, of little maidens preparing Easter gifts, 
said he. 

‘ Have you, papa? What were they ? Were they as nice as 
Miss Bivers’s ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


189 


‘ I don’t know, l)ut I thought they were the best sort of gifts, for 
I saw that plenty of kind thought and clever contrivance went to 
them, aye, and some little self-denial too.’ 

‘ Papa, you look as if you meant something ; but ours are nothing 
but nasty old rubbish.’ 

‘ Perhaps some fairy, or something better, has brought a wand to 
touch the rubbish, Blanche ; for I think that the maidens gave what 
would have been worthless kept, but became precious as they gave 
it.’ 

‘ Do you mean the list of our flannel petticoats, papa, that Mary 
has made into a tippet ? ’ 

1 Perhaps I meant Mary’s own time and pains, as well as the 
tippet. Would she have done much good with them otherwise? ’ 

‘ No, she would have played. Oh ! then, you like the presents 
because they are our own making? I never thought of that. Was 
that the reason you did not give us any of your sovereigns to buy 
things with ? ’ 

‘ Perhaps I want my sovereigns for the eleven gaping mouths at 
home, Blanche. But would not it be a pity to spoil your pleasure ? 
You would have lost all the chattering and laughing and buzzing 
I have heard round Margaret of late, and I am quite sure Miss Bivers 
can hardly be as happy in the gifts that cost her nothing, as one 
little girl who gives her sugar-plums out of her own mouth ! ’ 

Blanche clasped her papa’s hand tight, and bounded five or sis 
times. ‘ They are our presents, not yours,’ said she. ‘Yes, I see. 
I like them better now.’ 

‘ Aye, aye,’ said the Doctor. ‘ Seeing Miss Bivers’s must not 
take the shine out of yours, my little maids ; for if you can’t give 
much, you have the pleasure of giving the best of all, your labour 
of love.’ Then thinking on, and speaking to Flora, ‘ The longer I 
live, the more I see the blessing of being born in a state of life where 
y:u can’; both eat your cake and give it away.’ 

Flora never was at ease in a conversation with her father ; she 
could not follow him, and did not like to show it. She answered 
aside from the mark, ‘ You would not have Blanche underrate 
Miss Bivers ? ’ 

1 No, indeed, she is as good and sweet a creature as ever came 
across me — most kind to Margaret, and loving to all the world. I 
like to see one whom care and grief have never set their grip upon. 
Most likely she would do like Ethel, if she had the opportunity, but 
she has not.’ 

‘ So she has not the same merit ? ’ said Flora. 

, ‘We don’t talk of merit. I meant that the power of sacrifice is 
a great advantage. The habit of small sacrifice that is made neces- 
sary in a large family is a discipline that only children are without ; 
and so, with regard to wealth, I think people are to be pitied who 


190 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


can give extensively out of such abundance that they can hardly feel 
the want.’ 

‘ In effect, they can do much more,’ said Flora, 

1 I am not sure of that. They can , of course, but it must be at 
the cost of personal labour and sacrifice. I have often thought of 
the words, “ Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I 
thee.” And such aswc have it is that does the good ; the gold, if 
we have it, but, at any rate, the personal influence ; the very proof 
of sincerity, shown by the exertion and self-denial, tells far more 
than money lightly come by, lightly spent.’ 

1 Do you mean that a person who maintained a whole school would 
do less good than one who taught one child ? ’ 

1 If the rich person take no pains, and leave the school to take 
care of itself — nay, if he only visit it now and then, and never let it 
inconvenience him, has he the least security that the scholars are 
obtaining any real good from it ? If the teacher of the one child is 
doing his utmost, he is working for himself at least.’ 

‘ Suppose we could build, say our Church and school, on Cocks- 
moor at once, and give our superintendence besides ? ’ 

1 If things were ripe for it, the means would come. As it is, it 
is a fine field for Ethel and Richard. I believe it will be the making 
of them both. I am sure it is training Ethel, or making her train 
herself, as we could never have done without it. But here, come in 
and see old Mrs. Robins. A visit from you will cheer her up.’ 

Flora was glad of the interruption, the conversation was uncom- 
fortable to her. She almost fancied her papa was moralizing for 
their good, but that he carried it too far, for wealthy people assuredly 
had it in their power to do great things, and might work as hard 
themselves ; besides, it was finer in them, there was so much eclat in 
their stooping to charity. But her knowledge of his character would 
not allow her to think for a moment that he could say aught but 
from the bottom of his heart — no, it was one of his one-sided views 
that led him into paradox. 1 It was just like papa,’ and so there was 
no need to attend to it. It was one of his enthusiasms, he was so 
very fond of Ethel, probably because of her likeness to himself. 
Flora thought Ethel put almost too forward — they all helped at 
Cocksmoor, and Ethel was very queer and unformed, and could do 
nothing by herself. The only thing Flora did keep in her mind was, 
that her papa had spoken to her, as if she were a woman compared 
with Ethel. 

Little Blanche made her report of the conversation to Mary, 
1 that it was so nice ; and now she did not care about Miss Rivers’s 
fine presents at all, for papa said what one made one’s self was better 
to give than what one bought. And papa said, too, that it was a 
good thing not to be rich, for then one never felt the miss of what 
one gave away.’ 

Margaret, who overheard the exposition, thought it so much tc 


THE DAISY GIIAIN. 


Blanche’s credit, that she could not help repeating it in the evening, 
after the little girl was gone to bed, when Mr. Wilmot had come in 
to arrange the programme for Cocksmoor. So the little fit of dis- 
content and its occasion, the meeting with Meta Bivers, were dis- 
cussed. 

‘ Yes,’ said Mr. Wilmot, 1 those Biverses are open-handed. They 
really seem to have so much money, that they don’t know what to 
do with it. My brother is ready to complain that they spoil his 
parish. It is all meant so well, and they are so kind-hearted and 
excellent, that it is a shame to find fault, and I tell Charles and his 
wife that their grumbling at such a squire proves them the most 
spoilt of all.’ 

‘ Indiscriminate liberality ? ’ asked the Doctor. ‘ I should guess 
the old gentleman to be rather soft ! ’ 

1 That’s one thing. The parish is so small, and there are so few 
to shower all this bounty on, and they are so utterly unused to coun- 
try people. They seem to think by laying out money they can get 
a show set of peasants in rustic cottages, just as they have their fancy 
cows and poultry — all that offends the eye out of the way.’ 

‘ Making it a matter of taste,’ said the Doctor. 

‘ I’m sure I would,’ said Norman aside to Ethel. ‘ What’s the 
use of getting one’s self disgusted ? ’ 

4 One must not begin with showing dislike,’ began Ethel, 1 or — ’ 

I Aye — you like rags, don’t you ? but hush.’ 

‘ That is just what I should expect of Mr. Bivers,’ said Dr. May ; 
‘ he has cultivated his taste till it is getting to be a disease, but his 
daughter has no lack of wit.’ 

‘ Perhaps not. Charles and Mary are very fond of her, but she 
is entirely inexperienced, and that is a serious thing with so much 
money to throw about. She pays people for sending their children 
to school, and keeping their houses tidy ; and there is so much given 
away, that it is enough to take away all independence and motive 
for exertion. The people speculate on it, and take it as a right ; by- 
and-by there will be a re-action — she will find out she is imposed 
upon, take offence, and for the rest of her life will go about saying 
how ungrateful the poor are ! ’ 

‘ It is a pity good people won’t have a little common sense,’ said 
Dr. May. ‘ But there’s something so bewitching in that little girl, 
that I can’t give her up I verily believe she will right herself.’ 

I I have scarcely seen her,’ said Mr. Wilmot. 

1 She has won papa’s heart by her kindness to me,’ said Margaret, 
smiling. 4 You see her beautiful flowers ? She seems to me, mado 
to lavish pleasures on others wherever she goes.’ 

1 O yes, they are most kind-hearted,’ said Mr. Wilmot. 1 It is 
only the excess of a virtue that could be blamed in them, and they 
are most valuable to the place. She will learn experience in time— 
f only hope she will not be spoilt.’ 


192 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


Flora felt as if her father must be thinking his morning’s argu- 
ment confirmed, and she was annoyed. But she thought there was 
no reason why wealth should not be used sensibly, and if she were 
at the head of such an establishment as the Grange, her charity should 
be so well regulated as to be the subject of general approbation. 

She wanted to find some one else on her side, and, as they went 
to bed, she said to Ethel, ‘ Don’t you wish we had some of this 
superfluity of the Biverses for poor Cocksmoor ? ’ 

1 1 wish we had any thing for Cocksmoor ! Here’s a great hole 
in my boot, and nurse says I must get a new pair, that is seven-and- 
sixpence gone ! I shall never get the first pound made up towards 
building ! ’ 

£ And pounds seem nothing to them,’ said Flora. 

‘ Yes, but if they don’t manage right with them — I’ll tell you, 
Flora, I got into a fit of wishing the other day ; it does seem such 
a grievous pity to see those children running to waste for want of 
daily teaching, and Jenny Hall had forgotten everything. I was 
vexed, and thought it was all no use while we could not do more ; 
but just then I began to look out the texts Bitchie had marked for 
me to print for them to learn, and the first was, “ Be thou faithful 
over a few things, and I will make thee ruler over many things,” 
and then I thought perhaps we were learning to be faithful with a 
few things. I am sure what they said to-night showed it was lucky 
we have not more in our hands. I should do wrong for ever with 
the little we have if it were not for Bitchie and Margaret. By the 
time we have really got the money together for the school, perhaps 
I shall have more sense.’ 

1 Got the money ! As if we ever could ! ’ 

1 Oh, yes ! we shall and will. It need not be more than £70, 
Bitchie says, and I have twelve shillings for certain, put out from 
the money for hire of the room, and the books and clothes, and, 
in spite of these horrid boots, I shall save something out of this 
quarter, half-a-crown at least. And I have another plan besides — ’ 

But Flora had to go down to Margaret’s room to bed. F4ora 
was always ready to throw herself into the present, and liked to be 
the most useful person in all that went forward, so that no thoughts 
of greatness interfered with her enjoyment at Cocksmoor. 

The house seemed wild that Easter Monday morning. Ethel, 
Mary, and Blanche, flew about in all directions, and in spite of 
much undoing of their own arrangements, finished their prepara- 
tions so much too early, that at half-past eleven, Mary complained 
that she had nothing to do, and that dinner would never come. 

Many were the lamentations at leaving Margaret behind, but 
she answered them by talking of the treat of having papa all to 
herself, for be had lent them the gig, and promised to stay at homo 
all the afternoon with her. 

The first division started on foot directly after dinner, the real 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


193 


council of education, as Norman called them, namely, Mr. Wilmot, 
Richard, Ethel, and Mary ; Flora, the other member, waited to take 
care of Blanche and Aubrey, who were to come in the gig, with the 
cakes, tea-kettles, and prizes, driven by Norman. Tom and Hector 
Ernescliffie were invited to join the party, and many times did Mary 
wish for Harry. 

Supremely happy were the young people as they reached the 
common, and heard the shout of tumultuous joy, raised by their 
pupils, who were on the watch for them. All was now activity. 
Everybody trooped into Mrs. Greene’s house, while Richard and 
Ethel ran different ways to secure that the fires were burning, which 
they had hired, to boil their kettles, with the tea in them. 

Then when the kitchen was so full that it seemed as if it could 
hold no more, some kind of order was produced, the children were 
seated on their benches, and while the mothers stood behind to listen, 
Mr. Wilmot began to examine, as well as he could in so crowded an 
audience. 

There was progress. Yes, there was. Only three were as utterly 
rude and idealess as they used to be at Christmas. Glimmerings 
had dawned on most, and one — Una M’Carthy — was fit to come for- 
ward to claim Mr. Wilmot’s promise of a Prayer-book. She could 
really read and say the Catechism, her Irish wit and love of learn- 
ing had out-stripped all the rest, and she was the pride of Ethel’s 
heart, fit, now, to present herself on equal terms with the Stone- 
borough set, as far as her sense was concerned — though, alas ! neither 
present nor exhortation had succeeded in making her anything, in 
looks, but a picturesque tatterdemalion, her sandy elf locks stream- 
ing over a pair of eyes, so dancing and gracieuses, that it was 
impossible to scold her. 

With beating heart, as if her own success in life depended for 
ever on the way her flock acquitted themselves, Ethel stood by Mr. 
Wilmot, trying to read answers coming out of the dull mouths of 
her children, and looking exultingly at Richard whenever some good 
reply was made, especially when Una answered an unexpected ques- 
tion. It was too delightful to hear how well she remembered all 
the history up to the flood, and how prettily it came out in her Irish 
accent ! That made up for all the atrocious stupidity of others, 
who, after being told every time since they had begun, who gave 
their names, now chose to forget. 

In the midst, while the assembly were listening with admiration 
to the reading of the scholar next in proficiency to Una, a boy, who 
could read words of five letters without spelling, there was a fresh 
squeezing at the door, and, the crowd opening as well as it could, in 
came Flora and Blanche, while Norman’s head was seen for a mo- 
ment in the doorway. 

Flora’s whisper to Ethel was her first discovery, that the close- 

9 


194 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


ness and heat of the room were nearly overpowering. Her excite* 
ment had made all be forgotten. 1 Could not a window be opened ? ’ 

Mrs. Green interfered — it had been nailed up because her hus- 
band had the rheumatiz ! 

‘ Where’s Aubrey ? ’ asked Mary. 

‘ With Norman. Norman said he would not let him go into the 
black-hole, so he has got him out of doors. Ethel ! we must come out ! 
You don’t know what an atmosphere it is. Blanche, go out to Norman !’ 

‘ Flora, Flora ! you don’t consider,’ said Ethel in an agony. 

‘ Yes, yes. It is not at all cold. Let them have their presents 
out of doors, and eat their buns.’ 

Bichard and Mr. Wilmot agreed with Flora, and the party were 
turned out. Ethel did own, when she was in the open air, ‘ that it 
had been rather hot.’ 

Norman’s face was a sight, as he stood holding Aubrey in his 
arms, to gratify the child’s impatience. The stifling den, the 
uncouth aspect of the children, the head girl so very ragged a 
specimen, thoroughly revolted his somewhat fastidious disposition. 
This was Ethel’s delight ! to this she made so many sacrifices ! this 
was all that her time and labour had effected ! He did not wish to 
vex her, but it was more than he could stand. 

However, Ethel was too much engrossed to look for sympathy. 
It was a fine spring day, and on the open space of the common the 
arrangements were quickly made. The children stood in a long line, 
and the baskets were unpacked. Flora and Ethel called the names, 
Mary and Blanche gave the presents, and assuredly the grins, 
courtesies, and pull of the forelock they elicited, could not have 
been more hearty for any of Miss Bivers’s treasures. The buns and 
kettles of tea followed — it was perfect delight to entertainers and 
entertained, except when Mary’s dignity was cruelly hurt by Nor- 
man’s authoritatively taking a kettle out of her hands, telling her 
she would be the death of herself or somebody else, and reducing her 
to the mere rank of a bun distributor, which Blanche and Aubrey 
could do just as well ; while he stalked along with a grave and 
resigned countenance, filling up the cups held out to him by timid- 
looking children. Mary next fell in with Granny Hall, who had 
gone into such an ecstasy over Blanche and Aubrey, that Blanche 
did not know which way to look ; and Aubrey, in some fear that 
the old woman might intend to kiss him, returned the compliments 
by telling her she was ‘ ugly up in her face,’ at which she laughed 
heartily, and uttered more vehement benedictions. 

Finally, the three best children, boys and girls, were to be made 
fit to be seen, and recommended by Mr. Wilmot to the Sunday-School 
and penny-club at Stoneborough, and, this being proclaimed, and 
the children selected, the assembly dispersed. Mr. Wilmot rejoicing 
Ethel and Bichard, by saying, ‘ Well, really, you have made a 


THE DAISY CHAIH. 


195 


beginning ; there is an improvement in tone among those children, 
that is more satisfactory than any progress they may have made.’ 

Ethel’s eyes beamed, and she hurried to tell Flora. Richard 
coloured and gave his quiet smile, then turned to put things in 
order for their return. 

‘ Will you drive home, Richard ? ’ said Norman, coming up to him. 

‘ Don’t you wish it ? ’ said Richard, who had many minor arrange- 
ments to make, and would have preferred walking home independ- 
ently. 

‘ No, thank you, I have a head-ache, and walking may take it off,’ 
said Norman, taking off his hat and passing his fingers through his hair. 

‘ A head-ache again — I am sorry to hear it.’ 

1 It is only that suffocating den of yours. My head ached from 
the moment I looked into it. How can you take Ethel into such a 
hole, Richard ? It is enough to kill her to go on with it for ever.’ 

‘ It is not so every day,’ said the elder brother quietly. ‘ It is a 
warm day, and there was an unusual crowd.’ 

‘ I shall speak to my father,’ exclaimed Norman, with somewhat 
of the supercilious tone that he had now .and then been tempted to 
address to his brother. ‘ It is not fit that Ethel should give up 
everything, health and all, to such a set as these. They look as if 
they had been picked out of the gutter — dirt, squalor, everything 
disgusting, and summer coming on, too, and that horrid place with 
no window to open ! It is utterly unbearable ! ’ 

Richard stooped to pick up a heavy basket, then smiled and 
said, ( You must get over such things as these if you mean to be a 
clergyman, Norman.’ 

‘ Whatever I am to be, it does not concern the girls being in 
such a place as this. I am surprised that you could suffer it.’ 

There was no answer — Richard was walking off with his basket, 
and putting it into the carriage. Norman was not pleased with 
himself, but thought it his duty to let his father know his opinion 
of Ethel’s weekly resort. All he wished was to avoid Ethel herself, 
not liking to show her his sentiments, and he was glad to see her 
put into the gig with Aubrey and Mary. 

They rushed into the drawing-room, full of glee, when they 
came home, all shouting their news together, and had not at first 
leisure to perceive that Margaret had some tidings for them in re- 
turn. Mr. Rivers had been there, with a pressing invitation to his 
daughter’s school-feast, and it had been arranged that Flora and 
Ethel should go and spend the day at the Grange, and their father 
come to dine, and fetch them home in the evening. Margaret had 
been much pleased with the manner in which the thing was done. 
When Dr. May, who seemed reluctant to accept the proposal that 
related to himself, was called out of the room, Mr. Rivers had, in a 
most kind manner, begged her to say whether she thought it would 
be painful to him, or whether it might do his snirits good. She 


196 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


decidedly gave her opinion in favour of the invitation, Mr. Rivers 
gained his point, and she had ever since been persuading her father 
to like the notion, and assuring him it need not be made a prece- 
dent for the renewal of invitations to dine out in the town. He 
thought the change would be pleasant for his girls, and had, there- 
fore, consented. 

I 0, papa, papa ! thank you ! ’ cried Ethel, enraptured, as soon 
as he came into the room. ‘ How very kind of you ! How I have 
wished to see the Grange, and all Norman talks about ! Oh dear ! 
I am so glad you are going there too ! 5 

‘ Why, what should you do with me ? ’ said Dr. May, who felt 
and looked depressed at this taking up of the world again. 

‘ Oh dear ! I should not like it at all without you ! It would 
be no fun at all by ourselves. I wish Flora would come home. How 
pleased she will be ! Papa ! I do wish you would look as if you 
didn’t mind it. I can’t enjoy it if you don’t like going.’ 

I I shall when I am there, my dear,’ said the Doctor, affection- 
ately, putting his arm around her as she stood by him. 1 It will be 
a fine day’s sport for you.’ 

1 But can’t you like it beforehand, papa ? ’ 

1 Not just this minute, Ethel,’ said he, with his bright sad smile. 

1 All I like just now, is my girl’s not being able to do without me ; 
but we’ll do the best we can — So your flock acquitted themselves 
brilliantly ? Who is your Senior Wrangler ? ’ 

Ethel threw herself eagerly into the history of the examination, 
and had almost forgotten the invitation till she heard the front door 
open. Then it was not she, but Margaret, who told Flora — Ethel 
could not, as she said, enjoy what seemed to sadden her father. 
Flora received it much more calmly. ‘ It will be very pleasant,’ 
said she; ‘ it was very kind of papa to consent. You will have 
Richard and Norman, Margaret, to be with you in the evening.’ 

And, as soon as they went up-stairs, Ethel began to write 
down the list of prizes in her school journal, while Flora took out 
the best evening frocks, to study whether the crape looked fresh 
enough. 

The invitation was a convenient subject of conversation, for 
Norman had so much to tell his sisters of the curiosities they must 
look for at the Grange, that he was not obliged to mention Cocks- 
moor. He did not like to mortify Ethel by telling her his intense 
disgust, and he knew he was about to do what she would think a 
great injury by speaking to his father on the subject; but ho 
thought it for her real welfare, and took the first opportunity of 
making to his father and Margaret a most formidable description of 
Ethel’s black-hole. It quite alarmed Margaret, but the Doctor 
smiled, saying, ‘ Aye, aye, I know the face Norman puts on if he 
looks into a cottage.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


197 

i Well,’ said Norman, with some mortification, ‘ all I know is, 
that my head ached all the rest of the day.’ 

‘ Very likely, hut your head is not Ethel’s, and there were twice 
as many people as the place was intended to hold.’ 

1 A stuffy hole, full of peat-smoke, and with a window that can’t 
open at the best of times.’ 

‘ Peat-smoke is wholesome,’ said Dr. May, looking provoking. 

‘ You don’t know what it is, papa, or you would never let Ethel 
spend her life there. It is poisonous ! ’ 

‘ I’ll take care of Ethel,’ said Dr. May, walking off, and leaving 
Norman in a state of considerable annoyance at being thus treated, 
lie broke out into fresh exclamations against the horrors of Cocks- 
moor, telling Margaret she had no idea what a den it was. 

‘ But, Norman, it can’t be so very bad, or Bichard would not 
allow it.’ 

‘ Bichard is deluded ! ’ said Norman ; ‘ but if he chooses to run 
after dirty brats, why should he take Ethel there ? ’ 

‘ My dear Norman, you know it is all Ethel’s doing.’ 

‘ Yes, I know she has gone crazy after them, and given up all 
her Greek for it. It is past endurance ! ’ said Norman, who had 
worked himself up into great indignation. 

‘ Well, but surely, Norman, it is better they should do what they 
can for those poor creatures, than for Ethel to learn Greek.’ 

‘ I don’t know that. Let those who are fit for nothing else go 
and drone over A,B,C, with ragged children, if they like. It is 
just their vocation ; but there is an order in everything, Margaret, 
and minds of a superior kind are intended for higher purposes, not 
to be wasted in this manner.’ 

‘ I don’t know whether they are wasted ! ’ said Margaret, not 
quite liking Norman’s tone, though she had not much to say to his 
arguments. 

‘ Not wasted ? Not in doing what anyone can do ? I know 
what you’ll say about the poor. I grant it, but high ability must 
be given for a purpose, not to be thrown away. It is common sense, 
that some one must be meant to do the dirty work.’ 

‘ I see what you mean, Norman, but I don’t quite like that to 
be called by such a name. I think — ’ she hesitated. ‘ Don’t you 
think you dislike such things more than — ’ 

1 Anyone must abominate dirt and slovenliness. I know what 
you mean. My father thinks ’tis all nonsense in me, but his 
profession has made him insensible to such things, and he fan- 
cies everyone else is the same ! Now, Margaret, am I unrea- 
sonable ? ’ 

‘ I am sure I don’t, know, dear Norman,’ said Margaret, hesi- 
tating, and feeling it her duty to say something, ‘ I dare say it was 
very disagreeable.’ 

‘ And you think, too, that I made a disturbance for nothing ? 


198 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 No, indeed I don’t, nor does dear papa. I have no doubt he 
will see whether it is proper for Ethel. All I think he meant is, 
that perhaps your not being well last winter, has made you a little 
more sensitive in such things.’ 

Norman paused, and coloured. He remembered the pain it had 
given him to find himself incapable of being of use to his father, 
and that he had resolved to conquer the weakness of nerve of which 
he was ashamed; but he did not like to connect this with his 
fastidious feelings of refinement. He would not own to himself that 
they were over nice, and, at the bottom of all this justification, 
rankled Richard’s saying, that he who cared for such things was 
unfit for a clergyman. Norman’s secret thought w r as, it was all 
very well for those who could only aspire to parish work in wretched 
cottages — people who could distinguish themselves were more useful 
at the University, forming minds, and opening new discoveries in 
learning. 

Was Norman quite proof against the consciousness of daily ex- 
celling all his competitors ? His superiority had become even more 
manifest this Easter, when Cheviot and Forder, the two elder boys 
whom he had outstripped, left the school, avowedly, because it was 
not worth, while for them to stay, since they had so little chance of 
the Randall scholarship. Norman had now only to walk over the 
course, no one even approaching him but Harvey Anderson. 

Meta Rivers always said that fine weather came at her call, and 
so it did — glowing sunshine streaming over the shaven turf, and 
penetrating even the solid masses of the great cedar. 

The carriage was sent for the Miss Slays, and, at two o’clock, 
they arrived. Flora, extremely anxious that Ethel should comport 
herself discreetly ; and Ethel full of curiosity and eagerness, the 
only drawback, her fears that her papa was doing what he disliked. 
She was not in the least shy, and did not think about her manner 
enough to be troubled by the consciousness that it had a good deal 
of abruptness and eagerness, and that her short sight made her 
awkward. Meta met them with out-stretched hands, and a face 
beaming with welcome. ‘ I told you I should get my way ! ’ she 
said, triumphantly, and, after her warm greeting, she looked with 
some respect at the face of the Miss May, who was so very clever. 
It certainly was not what she expected, not at all like either of the 
four sisters she had already seen — brown, sallow, and with that 
sharp long nose, and the eager eyes, and brow a little knit by the de- 
sire to see as far as she could. It was pleasanter to look at Flora. 

Ethel left the talk chiefly to Flora — there was wonder and study 
enough for her in the grounds and garden, and when Mrs. Larpent 
tried to enter into conversation with her, she let it drop two or three 
times, while she was peering hard at a picture, and trying to make 
out its subject. However, when they all went out to walk to 
Church, Ethel lighted up and talked, admired, and asked questions 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


199 


in her quick, eager w ay, which interested Mrs. Larpent greatly. 
The governess asked after Norman, and no more was wanted to 
produce a volume of histories of his successes, till Flora turned as 
she walked before with Meta, saying, “ Why, Ethel, you are quite 
overwhelming Mrs. Larpent.’ 

But some civil answer convinced Ethel that what she said was 
interesting, and she would not be stopped in her account of their 
anxieties on the day of the examination. Flora was pleased that 
Meta, catching some words, begged to hear more, and Flora gave an 
account of the matter, soberer in terms, but quietly setting Norman 
at a much greater distance from all his competitors. 

After Church came the feast in the school. It was a large com- 
modious building. Meta declared it was very tiresome that it was 
so good inside, it was so ugly, she should never rest till papa had 
built her a real beauty. They found Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot 
in the school, with a very nice well-dressed set of boys and girls, 
and — but there is no need to describe the roast-beef and plum-pud- 
ding, ‘the feast ate merrily,’ and Ethel was brilliantly happy wait- 
ing on the children, and so was sunny-hearted Meta. Flora was 
too busy in determining what the Biverses might be thinking of her 
and her sister to give herself up to the enjoyment. 

Ethel found a small boy looking ready to cry at an untouched 
slice of beef. She examined him whether he could cut it, and at 
last discovered that, as had been the case with one or two of her 
own brothers at the same age, meat was repugnant to him. In 
her vehement manner, she flew off to fetch him some pudding, and 
hurrying up as she thought to Mr. Charles Wilmot, who had been 
giving out, she thrust her plate between him and the dish, and 
had begun her explanation, when she perceived it was a stranger, 
and she stood, utterly discomfited, not saying, ‘ I beg your pardon,’ 
but only blushing, awkward and confused, as he spoke to her, in 
a good-natured, hospitable manner, which showed her it must be 
Mr. Bivers. She obtained her pudding, and, turning hastily, 
retreated. 

‘ Meta,’ said Mr. Bivers, as his daughter came out of the school 
with him, for, open and airy as it was, the numbers and the dinner 
made him regard it as Norman had viewed the Cocksmoor room, 
‘ was that one of the Miss Mays ? ’ 

‘ Yes, papa, Ethel, the third, the clever one.’ 

‘ I thought she must be one of them from her dress ; but what 
i difference between her and the others ! ’ 

Mr. Bivers was a great admirer of beauty, and Meta, brought up 
to be the same, was disappointed, but consoled herself by admiring 
Flora. Ethel, after the awkwardness was over, thought no more of 
the matter, but went on in full enjoyment of the feast. The eating 
finished, the making of presents commenced, and choice ones they 
were. • The smiles of Meta and of the children were a pretty sight 


£00 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and Ethel thought she had never seen anything so like a beneficent 
fairy. Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot said their words of counsel and 
encouragement, and, by five o’clock, all was over. 

1 Oh ! I am sorry! ’ said Meta, 1 Easter won’t come again for a 
whole year, and it has been so delightful. How that dear little 
Annie smiled and nursed her doll ! I wish I could see her show it 
to her mother ! Oh ! how nice it is ! I am so glad papa brought 
me to live in the country. I don’t think anything can be so charm- 
ing in all the world as seeing little children happy ! ’ 

Ethel could not think how the Wilmots could have found it in 
their heart to regret the liberality of this sweet damsel, on whom 
she began to look with Norman’s enthusiastic admiration. 

There was time for a walk round the grounds, Meta doing the 
honours to Flora, and Ethel walking with Mrs. Larpent. Both 
pairs were very good friends, and the two sisters admired and were 
charmed with the beauty of the gardens and conservatories — Ethel 
laying up a rich store of intelligence for Margaret ; but still she was 
not entirely happy ; her papa was more and more on her mind. He 
had looked dispirited at breakfast ; he had a long hard day’s work 
before him ; and she was increasingly uneasy at the thought that it 
would be a painful effort to him to join them in the evening. Her 
mind was full of it when she was conducted, with Flora, to the 
room where they were to dress ; and when Flora began to express 
her delight, her answer was only that she hoped it was not very 
unpleasant to papa. 

‘ It is not worth while to be unhappy about that, Ethel. If it 
is an effort, it will be good for him when he is once here. I know 
he will enjoy it.’ 

‘ Yes, I should think he would — I hope he will. He must like 
you to have such a friend as Miss Rivers. How pretty she is ! ’ 

1 Now, Ethel, it is high time to dress. Pray make yourself look 
nice — don’t twist up your hair in that any-how fashion.’ 

Ethel sighed, then began talking fast about some hints on 
school-keeping which she had picked up for Cocksmoor. 

Flora’s glossy braids were in full order, while Ethel was still 
struggling to get her plait smooth, and was extremely beholden to 
her sister for taking it into her own hands, and doing the best with 
it that its thinness and roughness permitted. And then Flora 
pinched and pulled and arranged Ethel’s frock, in vain attempts to 
make it sit like her own — those sharp high bones resisted all at- 
tempts to disguise them. ‘ Never mind, Flora, it is quite tidy, I 
am sure, there — do let me be in peace. You are like old nurse.’ 

‘ So those are all the thanks I get ? ’ 

‘ Well, thank you very much, dear Flora. You are a famous 
person. How I wish Margaret could see that lovely mimosa ! ’ 

‘ And, Ethel, do take care. Pray don’t poke and spy when you 
come into the room, and don’t frown when you are trying to see 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


201 


I hope you won’t have anything to help at dinner. Take care how 
you manage.’ 

1 I’ll try,’ said Ethel, meekly, though a good deal tormented, as 
Flora went on with half-a-dozen more injunctions, closed by Meta’s 
coming to fetch them. Little Meta did not like to show them her 
own bed-room — she pitied them so much when she thought of the 
contrast. She would have liked to put Flora’s arm through her’s. 
but she thought it would look neglectful of Ethel ; so she only 
showed the way down stairs. Ethel forgot all her sister’s orders ; 
for there stood her father, and she looked most earnestly at his face. 
It was cheerful, and his voice sounded well-pleased as he greeted 
Meta ; then resumed an animated talk with Mr. Rivers. Ethel 
drew as near him as she could ; she had a sense of protection, and 
could open to full enjoyment when she saw him bright. At the 
first pause in the conversation, the gentlemen turned to the young 
ladies. Mr. Rivers began talking to Flora, and Dr. May, after a 
few pleasant words to Meta, went back to Ethel. He wanted her 
to see his favourite pictures — he led her up to them, made her put 
on his spectacles to see them better, and showed her their special 
merits. Mr. Rivers and the others joined them ; Ethel said little, 
except a remark or two in answer to her papa, but she was very 
happy — she felt that he liked to have her with him ; and Meta, 
too, was struck by the soundness of her few sayings, and the par- 
ticipation there seemed to be in all things between the father and 
daughter. 

At dinner Ethel went on pretty well. She was next to her 
father, and was very glad to find the dinner so grand, that no side- 
dish fell to her lot to be carved. There was a great deal of pleasant 
talk, such as the girls could understand, though they did not join 
much in it, except that now and then Dr. May turned to Ethel as a 
reference for names and dates. To make up for silence at dinner, 
there was a most confidential chatter in the drawing-room. Flora 
and Meta on one side, hand in hand, calling each other by their 
Christian names, Mrs. Larpent and Ethel on the other. Flora 
dreaded only that Ethel was talking too much, and revealing too 
much in how different style they lived. Then came the gentlemen, 
Dr. May begging Mr. Rivers to show Ethel one of his prints, when 
Ethel stooped more than ever, as if her eyelashes were feelers, but 
she was in transports of delight, and her embarrassment entirely at 
an end in her admiration, as she exclaimed and discussed with her 
papa, and by her hearty appreciation made Mr. Rivers for the 
time forget her plainness. Music followed ; Flora played nicely, 
Meta like a well- taught girl, Ethel went on musing over the en- 
gravings. The carriage was announced, and so ended the day in 
Norman’s fairy land. Ethel went home, leaning hard against her 
papa, talking to him of Raffaelle’s Madonnas ; and looking out at 
the stars, and thinking how the heavenly beauty of those faces that 


202 


THE DAISY CHAIN - . 


in the prints she had been turning over, seemed to be connected 
with the glories of the dark-blue sky and glowing stars. ‘ As one 
star differeth from another star in glory,’ murmured she ; ‘ that was 
the lesson to-day, papa ; ’ and when she felt him press her hand, she 
knew he was thinking of that last time she had heard the lesson, 
when he had not been with her, and her thoughts went with his, 
though not another word was spoken. 

Flora hardly knew when they ceased to talk. She had musings 
equally engrossing of her own. She saw she was likely to be very 
intimate with Meta Rivers, and she was roaming away into schemes 
for not letting the intercourse drop, and hopes of being admitted to 
many a pleasure, as yet little within her reach — parties, balls, Lon- 
don itself, and, above all, the satisfaction of being admired. The 
certainty that Mr. Rivers thought her pretty and agreeable, had 
gratified her all the evening, and if he, with his refined taste, 
thought so, what would others think ? Her only fear was, that 
Ethel’s awkwardness might make an unfavourable impression, 
but, at least, she said to herself, it was anything but vulgar awk- 
wardness. 

Their reflections were interrupted by the fly stopping. It was 
at a little shop in the outskirts of the town, and Dr. May explained 
that he wanted to inquire for a patient. He went in for a moment, 
then came back to desire that they would go home, for he should be 
detained some little time. No one need sit up for him — he would 
let himself in. 

It seemed a comment on Ethel’s thoughts, bringing them back 
to the present hour. That daily work of homely mercy, hoping for 
nothing again, was surely the true way of doing service. 


• 

CHAPTER XXI. 


WAtchman. IIoav, if he will not stand ? 

Dogberry. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go. 

Much Ado about Nothino. 

Dr. May promised Margaret that he would see whether the black 
hole of Cocksmoor was all that Norman depicted it, and, accord- 
ingly, he came home that way on Tuesday evening, the next week, 
much to the astonishment of Richard, who was in the act of so 
mending the window that it might let in air when open, and keep it 
out when shut, neither of which purposes had it ever yet answered. 

Dr. May walked in, met his daughter’s look of delight and sur- 
prise, spoke cheerfully to Mrs. Green, a hospital acquaintance of 
his, like half the rest of the country, and made her smile and cour- 
tesy by asking if she was not surprised at such doings in her house ; 
then looked at the children, and patted the head that looked most 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


203 


fit to pat, inquired who was the best scholar, and offered a penny to 
whoever could spell copper tea-kettle, which being done by three 
merry mortals, and having made him extremely popular, he offered 
Ethel a lift, and carried her off between him and Adams, on whom 
he now depended for driving him, since Richard was going to Ox- 
ford at once. 

It was possible to spare him now. Dr. May’s arm was as well 
as he expected it ever would be ; he had discarded the sling, and 
could use his hand again, but the arm was still stiff and weak — ho 
could not stretch it out, nor use it for anything requiring strength , 
it soon grew tired with writing, and his daughters feared that it 
ached more than he chose to confess, when they saw it resting in 
the breast of his waistcoat. Driving he never would have attempted 
again, even if he could, and he had quite given :ip carving — he 
could better bear to sit at the side, than at the bottom of the dinner- 
table. 

Means of carrying Margaret safely had been arranged by Richard, 
and there was no necessity for longer delaying his going to Oxford, 
but he was so unwillingly spared by all, as to put him quite into 
good spirits. Ethel was much concerned to lose him from Cocks- 
moor; and dreaded hindrances to her going thither without his 
escort ; but she had much trust in having her father on her side, 
and meant to get authority from him for the propriety of going 
alone with Mary. 

She did not know how Norman had jeopardized her projects, but 
the danger blew over. Dr. May told Margaret that the place was 
clean and wholesome, and though more smoky than might be pre- 
ferred, there was nothing to do anyone in health any harm,' espe- 
cially when the walk there and back was over the fresh moor. He 
lectured Ethel herself on opening the window, now that she could ; 
and advised Norman to go and spend an hour in the school, that he 
might learn how pleasant peat-smoke was — a speech Norman did 
not like at all. The real touchstone of temper is ridicule on a 
point where we do not choose to own ourselves fastidious, and if it 
had been from anyone but his father, Norman would not have so 
entirely kept down his irritation. 

Richard passed his examination successfully, and Dr. May wrote 
himself to express his satisfaction. Nothing went wrong just now 
except little Tom, who seemed to be justifying Richard’s fears of 
the consequence of exciting his father’s anger. At home, he shrank 
and hesitated at the simplest question if put by his father suddenly ; 
and the appearance of cowardice and prevarication displeasing 
Dr. May further, rendered his tone louder, and frightened Tom the 
more, giving his manner an air of sullen reserve that was most 
unpleasant. At school it was much the same — he kept aloof from 
Norman, and threw himself more into the opposite faction, by whom 


204 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


he was shielded from all punishment, except what they chose them 
selves to inflict on him. 

Norman’s post as head of the school was rendered more difficult 
by the departure of his friend Cheviot, who had always upheld his 
authority ; Harvey Anderson did not openly transgress, for he had 
a character to maintain, but it was well known throughout the school 
that there was a wide difference between the boys, and that Anderson 
thought it absurd, superfluous, and troublesome in May not to wink 
at abuses which appeared to be licensed by long standing. When 
Edward Anderson, Axworthy, and their set, broke through rules, 
it was with the understanding that the second boy in the school 
would support them, if he durst. 

The summer, and the cricket season, brought the battle of Ball- 
hatchet’s house to issue. The cricket ground was the field close to 
it, and for the last two or three years there had been a frequent 
custom of despatching juniors to his house for tarts and ginger-beer 
bottles. Norman knew of instances last year in which this had led 
to serious mischief, and had made up his mind that, at whatever 
loss of popularity, it was his duty to put a stop to the practice. 

He was an ardent cricketer himself, and though the game did not, 
in anticipation, seem to him to have all the charms of last year, he 
entered into it with full zest when once engaged. But his eye was 
on all parts of the field, and especially on the corner by the bridge, 
and the boys knew him well enough to attempt nothing unlawful 
within the range of that glance. However, the constant vigilance 
was a strain too great to be always kept up, and he had reason to 
believe he was eluded more than once. 

At last came a capture, something like that of Tom, one which 
he could not have well avoided making. The victim was George 
Larkins, the son of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, a wild, merry 
varlet, who got into mischief rather for the sake of the fun than 
from any bad disposition. 

His look of consternation was exaggerated into a most comical 
caricature, in order to hide how much of it was real. 

1 So you are at that trick, Larkins.’ 

‘There! that bet is lost ! ’ exclaimed Larkins. ‘ I laid Hill half- 
a-crown that you would not see me when you were mooning over 
your verses ! ’ 

1 Well, I have seen you. And now — ? ’ 

‘ Come, you would not thrash a fellow when you have just lost 
him half-a-crown ! Single misfortunes never come alone, they say ; 
go there’s my money and my credit gone, to say nothing of Ball- 
hatchet’s ginger-beer ! ’ 

The boy made such absurd faces, that Norman could hardly help 
laughing, though he wished to make it a serious affair. * You 
know, Larkins, I have given out that such things are not to be. It 
is a melancholy fact ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


205 


‘ Aye ! so you must make an example of me ! ’ said Larkins, pre- 
tending to look resigned. ‘ Better call all the fellows together, 
hadn’t you, and make it more effective ? It would be grateful to 
one’s feelings, you know — and June,’ added he, with a ridiculous 
confidential air r ‘ if you only lay it on soft, I’ll take care it makes 
noise enough. Great cry, little wool, you know.’ 

1 Come with me,’ said Norman. ‘ I’ll take care you are example 
enough. What did you give for those articles ? ’ 

‘Fifteen-pence half-penny. Rascally dear, isn’t it ? but the old 
rogue makes one pay double for the risk ! You are making his 
fortune, you have raised his prices fourfold.’ 

‘ I’ll take care of that.’ 

‘ Why, where are you taking me ? Back to him ? ’ 

‘ I am going to gratify your wish to be an example.’ 

‘ A gibbet ! a gibbet ! ’ cried Larkins. ‘ I’m to be turned off on 
the spot where the crime took place — a warning to all beholders. 
Only let me send home for old Neptune’s chain, if you please, sir — 
if you hang me in the combined watch-chains of the school, I fear 
they would give way, and defeat the purposes of justice.’ 

They were by this time at the bridge. ‘ Come in,’ said Norman, 
to his follower, as he crossed the entrance of the little shop, the first 
time he had ever been there. A little cringing shrivelled old man 
stood up in astonishment. 

‘ Mr. May ! can I have the pleasure, sir ? ’ 

‘ Mr. Ballhatchet, you know that it is contrary to the rules that 
there should be any traffic with the school without special permission.’ 

‘ Yes, sir — just nothing sir — only when the young gentlemen 
come here, sir — I’m an old man, sir, and I don’t like not to oblige a 
young gentleman, sir,’ pleaded the old man, in a great fright. 

‘ Very likely,’ said Norman, ‘ but I am come to give you fair 
notice. I am not going to allow the boys here to be continually 
smuggling spirits into the school.’ 

‘ Spirits ! bless you, sir, I never thought of no sich a thing ! ’Tis 
nothing in life but ginger-beer — very cooling drink sir, of my wife’s 
making; she had the receipt from her grandmother up in Leices 
tershire. Won’t you taste a bottle, sir? ’ and he hastily made a 
cork bounce, and poured it out. 

That, of course, was genuine, but Norman was ‘ up to him,’ in 
school-boy phrase. 

‘ Give me yours, Larkins.’ 

No pop ensued. Larkins, enjoying the detection, put his hands 
on his knees, and looked wickedly up in the old man’s face to see 
what was coming. 

‘ Bless me ! It is a little flat. I wonder how that happened ? 
I’ll be most happy to change it, sir. Wife ! what’s the meaning of 
Mr. Larkins’ ginger-pop being so flat ? ’ 

‘ It is very curious ginger-beer indeed, Mr. Ballhatchet,’ said 


206 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Norman; ’ and since it is liable to have such strange propel ties, 1 
cannot allow it to be used any more at the school.’ 

‘ Very well, sir — as you please, sir. You are the first gentleman 
as has objected, sir.’ 

1 And, once for all, I give you warning,’ added Norman, ; that if I 
have reason to believe you have been obliging the young gentlemen, 
the magistrates and the trustees of the road shall certainly hear of it.’ 

1 You would not hurt a poor man, sir, as is drove to it — you as 
has such a name for goodness.’ 

‘ 1 have given you warning,’ said Norman. 1 The next time I 
find any of your bottles in the school fields, your license goes. Now, 
there are your goods. Give Mr. Larkins back the fifteen-pence. I 
wonder you are not ashamed of such a charge ! ’ 

Having extracted the money, Norman turned to leave the shop. 
Larkins, triumphant, ‘ Ha ! there’s Harrison ! ’ as the tutor rode by, 
and they touched their caps. ‘ How he stared ! My eyes ! June, 
you’ll be had up for dealing with old Ball ! * and he went into an 
ecstasy of laughing. ‘ You’ve settled him, I believe. Well, is 
justice satisfied ? ’ 

‘ It would be no use thrashing you,’ said Norman, laughing, as he 
leant against the parapet of the bridge, and pinched the boy’s ear. 

‘ There’s nothing to be got out of you but chaff.’ 

Larkins was charmed with the compliment. 

1 But I’ll tell you what, Larkins, I can’t think how a fellow like 
you can go and give in to these sneaking, underhand tricks that 
make you ashamed to look one in the face.’ 

‘ It is only for the fun of it.’ 

‘ Well, I wish you would find your fun some other way. Come, 
Larkins, recollect yourself a little — you have a home not so far off. 
How do you think your father and mother would fancy seeing you 
reading the book you had yesterday, or coming out of B allhatchet’s 
with a bottle of spirits, called by a false name ? ’ 

Larkins pinched his fingers ; home was a string that could touch 
him, but it seemed beneath him to own it. At that moment a car- 
riage approached, the boy’s whole face lighted up, and he jumped 
forward. 1 Our own ! ’ he cried. ‘ There she is ! ’ 

She was, of course, his mother; and Norman, though turning 
hastily away that his presence might prove no restraint, saw the boy 
fly over the door of the open carriage, and could have sobbed at the 
thought of what that meeting was. 

‘ Who was that with you ? ’ asked Mrs. Larkins, when she had 
obtained leave to have her boy with her, while she did her shopping. 

‘ That was May senior, our Dux.’ 

‘Was it ? I am very glad you should be with him, my dear 
George. He is very kind to you, I hope ? ’ 

‘ He is a jolly good fellow,’ said Larkins, sincerely, though by no 
means troubling himself as to the appropriateness of the eulogy 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 207 

nor thinking it necessary to explain to his mother the terms of the 
conversation. 

It was not fruitless ; Larkins did avoid mischief when it was not 
extremely inviting, was more amenable to May senior, and having 
been put in mind by him of his home, was not ashamed to bring the 
thought to the aid of his eyes, when, on Sunday, during a long ser- 
mon of Mr. Ramsden’s, he knew that Axworthy was making the 
grimace which irresistibly incited him to make a still finer one. 

And Ballhatchet was so much convinced of 1 that there young 
May’ being in earnest, that he assured his persuasive customers that 
it was as much as his license was worth, to supply them. 

Evil and insubordination were more easily kept under than Nor- 
man had expected, when he first made up his mind to the struggle. 
Firmness had so far carried the day, and the power of manful as- 
sertion of the right had been proved, contrary to Cheviot’s parting 
auguries, that he would only make himself disliked, and do no good. 

The whole of the school was extremely excited this summer by 
a proceeding of Mr. Tomkins, the brewer, who suddenly closed up the 
foot- way called Randall’s Alley, declaring that there was no right of 
passage through a certain field at the back of his brewery. Not only 
the school, but the town was indignant, and the Mays especially so. 
It had been the Doctor’s way to school forty years ago, and there were 
recollections connected with it, that made him regard it with per- 
sonal affection. Norman, too, could not bear to lose it; he had not 
entirely conquered his reluctance to pass that spot in the High 
Street, and the loss of the alley would be a positive deprivation to 
him. Almost every native of Stoneborough felt strongly the en- 
croachment of the brewer, and the boys, of course, carried the sen- 
timent to exaggeration. 

The propensity to public speaking perhaps added to the excite- 
ment, for Norman May, and Harvey Anderson, for once in unison, 
each made a vehement harangue in the school-court — Anderson’s a 
fine specimen of the village Hampden style, about Britons never 
suffering indignities, and free-born Englishmen swelling at injuries. 

1 That they do, my hearty,’ int3rjected Larkins, pointing to an 
inflamed eye that had not returned to its right dimensions. How- 
ever, Anderson went on unmoved by the under titter, and demon- 
strated, to the full satisfaction of all the audience, that nothing 
could be more illegal and unfounded than the brewer’s claims. 

Then came a great outburst from Norman, with all his father’s 
headlong vehemence ; the way was the right of the town, the walk 
had been trodden by their forefathers for generations past — it had been 
made by the good old generous-hearted man who loved his town and 
townspeople, and would have heard with shame and anger of a 
stranger, a new inhabitant, a grasping radical, caring, as radicals 
always did, for no rights, but for their own chance of unjust gains, 
coming here to Stoneborough to cut them off from their own path 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


208 

He talk of liberalism and the rights of the poor ! He who cut off 
liandall’s poor old creatures in the almshouse from their short way 
and then* came some stories of his oppression as a poor-law guardian ; 
which greatly aggravated the wrath of the speaker and the audience, 
though otherwise they did not exactly bear on the subject. ‘ What 
would old Nicholas Iiandall say to these nineteenth-century doings ! 
finished Norman. 

1 Down with them ! ’ cried a voice from the throng, probably 
Larkins’s ; but there was no desire to investigate, it was the universal 
sentiment. 1 Down with it ! Hurrah, we’ll have our foot-path open 
again ! Down with the fences ! Britons never shall be slaves ! ’ as 
Larkins finally ejaculated. 

1 That’s the way to bring it to bear ! ’ said Harvey Anderson. 

‘ See if he dares to bring an action against us. Hurrah ! ’ 

1 Yes, that’s the way to settle it,’ said Norman. ‘ Let’s have it 
down. It is an oppressive, arbitrary, shameful proceeding, and we’ll 
show him we won’t submit to it ! ’ 

Carried along by the general feeling, the whole troop of boys 
dashed shouting up to the barricade at the entrance of the field, and 
levelled it with the ground. A handkerchief was fastened to the top 
of one of the stakes, and waved over the brewhouse wall, and some 
of the boys were for picking up stones and dirt, and launching them 
over, in hopes of spoiling the beer ; but Norman put a stop to this, 
and brought them back to the school-yard, still in a noisy state of 
exultation. 

It cooled a little by-and-by under the doubt how their exploit 
would be taken. At home, Norman found it already known, and his 
father half glad, half vexed, enjoying the victory over Tomkins, yet 
a little uneasy on his son’s behalf. ‘ What will Dr. Hoxton say to 
the dux ? ’ said he. ‘ I didn’t know he was to be dux in mischief 
as well as out of it.’ 

‘ You can’t call it mischief, papa, to resent an unwarranted 
encroachment of our rights by such an old ruffian as that. One’s 
blood is up to think of the things he has done ! ’ 

‘ He richly deserves it, no doubt,’ said the Doctor, ‘ and yet I 
wish you had been out of the row. If there is any blame, you will 
be the first it will light on.’ 

‘ I am glad of it, that is but just. Anderson and I seem to 
have stirred it up — if it wanted stirring — for it was in every fellow 
there; indeed, I had no notion it was coming to this when I 
began.’ 

‘ Oratory,’ said the Doctor, smiling. * Ha, Norman ! Think a 
little another time, my boy, before you take the law into your own 
hands, or, what is worse, into a lot of hands you can’t control for 
good, though you may excite them to harm.’ 

Dr. Hoxton did not come into school at the usual hour, and, in 


TI1E DAISY CHAIN. 209 

the course of the morning, sent for May senior to speak to him in 
his study 

He looked very broad, awful, and dignified, as he informed him 
that Mr. Tomkins had just been with him to complain of the 
damage that had been done, and he appeared extremely displeased 
that the Dux should have been no check on such proceedings. 

‘ I am sorry, sir,’ said Norman, ‘ but I believe it was the general 
feeling that he had no right to stop the alley, and, therefore, that it 
could not be wrong to break it down.’ 

‘ Whether he has a right or not, is not a question to be settled 
by you. So I find that you, whose proper office it is to keep order, 
have been inflaming the mischievous and aggressive spirit amongst 
the others. I am surprised at you ; I thought you were more to 
be depended upon, May, in your position.’ 

Norman coloured a good deal, and simply answered, ‘ I am 
sorry, sir.’ 

‘ Take care, then, that nothing of the kind happens again,’ said 
Dr. Hoxton, who was very fond of him, and did not find fault with 
him willingly. 

That the first inflammatory discourse had been made by Ander- 
son, did not appear to be known — he only came in for the general 
reprimand given to the school. 

It was reported the following evening, just as the town boys 
turned out to go to their homes, that ‘ old Tomkins had his fence 
up five times higher than before.’ 

1 Have at him again, say I ! ’ exclaimed Axworthy. ‘ What 
business has he coming stopping up ways that were made before he 
was born ? ’ 

‘ We shall catch it from the doctor if we do,’ said Edward An- 
derson. ‘ He looked in no end of a rage yesterday when he talked 
ahout the credit of the school.’ 

‘ Who cares for the credit of the school ? ’ said the elder An- 
derson ; ‘ we are out of the school now — we are townsmen — Stone- 
borough boys — citizens not bound to submit to injustice. No, no, 
the old rogue knew it would not stand if it was brought into court, 
so he brings down old Hoxton on us instead — a dirty trick he de- 
serves to be punished for.’ 

And there was a general shout and yell in reply. 

'Anderson,’ said Norman, ‘you had better not excite them 
again, they are ripe for mischief. It will go further than it did 
yesterday — don’t you see ? ’ 

Anderson could not afford to get into a scrape without May to 
stand before him, and rather sulkily he assented. 

‘ It is of no use to rave about old Tomkins,’ proceeded Norman, 
in his style of popular oratory. ‘ If it is illegal, some one will gc 
to law about it, and we shall have our alley again. We have shown 
him our mind once, and that is enough ; if we let him alone now 


210 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


he will see ’tis only because we are ordered, not for bis sake. It 
would be just putting him in the right, and may be winning his 
cause for him, to use any more violence. There’s law for you, An- 
derson. So now no more about it — let us all go home like rational 
fellows. August, where’s August ? ’ 

Tom was not visible — he generally avoided going home with his 
brother, and Norman having seen the boys divide into two or three 
little parties, as their roads lay homewards, found he had an hour 
of light for an expedition of his own, along the bank of the river. 
He had taken up botany with much ardour, and sharing the study 
with Margaret was a great delight to both. There was a report that 
the rare yellow bog-bean grew in a meadow about a mile and a half 
up the river, and thither he was bound, extremely enjoying the sum- 
mer evening walk, as the fresh dewey coolness sunk on all around, 
and the noises of the town were mellowed by distance and the sun’s 
last beams slanted on the green meadows, and the May-flies danced 
and dragon-flies darted, and fish rose or leapt high in the air, or 
showed their spotted sides, and opened and shut their gills, as they 
rested in the clear water, and the evening breeze rustled in the tall 
reeds, and brought fragrance from the fresh-mown hay. 

It was complete enjoyment to Norman after his day’s study, 
and the rule and watch over the unruly crowd of boys, and he 
walked and wandered, and collected plants for Margaret till the sun 
was down, and the grasshoppers chirped clamorously, while the 
fern-owl purred, and the beetle hummed, and the skimming swallows 
had given place to the soft-winged bat, and the large white owl 
floating over the fields as it moused in the long grass. 

The summer twilight was sobering every tint, when, as Norman 
crossed the cricket-field, he heard, in the distance, a loud shout. 
He looked up, and it seemed to him that he saw some black specks 
dancing in the forbidden field, and something like the waving of a 
flag, but it was not light enough to be certain, and he walked 
quickly home. 

The front door was fastened, and, while he was waiting to be let 
in, Mr. Harrison walked by, and called out, ‘ You are late at home 
to-night — it is half-past nine.’ 

‘ I have been taking a walk, sir.’ 

A good-night was the answer, as he was admitted. Every- 
one in the drawing-room looked up, and exclaimed, as he entered. 
‘ Where’s Tom ? ’ 

‘ What ! he is not come home ? ’ 

I No ! Was he not with you? ’ 

I I missed him after school. I was persuaded he was come home. 
I have been to look for the yellow bog-bean. There, Margaret. 
Had not I better go and look for him ? ’ 

‘ Yes, do,’ said Dr. May. ‘ The boy is never off one’s mind.’ 

A sort of instinctive dread directed Norman’s steps down the 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


211 


open portion of Randall’s Alley, and, voices growing louder as he 
came nearer, confirmed his suspicions. The fence at this end wa? 
down, and, on entering the field, a gleam of light met his eye on th« 
ground — a cloud of smoke, black figures were flitting round it, 
pushing brands into red places, and feeding the bonfire. 

* What have you been doing ? ’ exclaimed Norman. * You have 
got yourselves into a tremendous scrape ! ’ 

A peal of laughter, and shout of 1 Randall and Stoneborough 
for ever ! ’ was the reply. 

‘ August ! May junior ! Tom ! answer me ! Is he here ? ’ asked 
Norman, not solicitous to identify anyone. 

But gruff voices broke in upon them. ‘ There they are, nothing 
like ’em for mischief.’ 

1 Come, young gentlemen,’ said a policeman, * be off, if you please. 
We don’t want to have none of you at the Station to-night.’ 

A general hurry-skurry ensued. Norman alone, strong in inno- 
cence, walked quietly away, and, as he came forth from the dark- 
ness of the Alley, beheld something scouring away before him, in 
the direction of home. It popped in at the front door before him, 
but was not in the drawing-room. He strode up-stairs, called but 
was not answered, and found, under the bed-clothes, a quivering 
mass, consisting of Tom with all his clothes on, fully persuaded 
that it was the policeman who was pursuing him. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Oh Life, without thy chequered scene, 

Of right and wrong, of weal and woe, 

Success and failure, could a ground 
For magnanimity be found? ’ 

Wordsworth. 

Doctor May was called for late the next day, Friday, and spent 
some time in one of the houses near the river. It was nearly eight 
o’clock when he came away, and he lingered, looking towards tha 
school, in hopes of a walk home with his boys. 

Presently he saw Norman come out from under the archway, hia 
cap drawn over his face, and step, gesture, and manner, betraying 
that something was seriously wrong. He came up almost to his 
father without seeing him, until startled by his exclamation, 1 Nor- 
man — why Norman, what’s the matter ? ’ 

Norman’s lips quivered, and his face was pale — he seemed as if 
he could not speak. 

1 Where’s Tom ? ’ said the doctor, much alarmed. 1 Has he got 
into disgrace about this business of Tomkins ? That boy — ’ 

1 He has only got an imposition,’ interrupted Norman. ‘ No, it 
is not that — it is myself, — ’ and it was only with a gulp and strug- 


212 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


glc tliat he brought out the words, ‘I am turned down in the 
school.’ 

The Doctor started back a step or two, aghast. 1 What — how 
— speak, Norman. What have you done ? ’ 

1 Nothing ! ’ said Norman, recovering, in the desire to re-assuro 
his father, ‘ nothing ! ’ 

‘ That’s right,’ said the Doctor, breathing freely, 1 What’s the 
meaning of it . . . .a misunderstanding ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Norman, with bitterness. 1 It is all Anderson’s 
doing — a word from him would have set all straight — but he would 
not — I believe, from my heart, he held his tongue to get me down, 
that he might have the Randall ! ’ 

1 We’ll see you righted,’ said the Doctor, eagerly. 1 Come, tell 
me the whole story, Norman. Is it about this unlucky business ? ’ 
c Yes. The town-fellows were all up about it last evening, when 
we came out of school. Anderson senior himself began to put them 
up to having the fence down again. Yes, that he did — I remember 
his very words — that Tomkins could not bring it into Court, and 
so set old Hoxton at us. Well, I told them it would not do, — 
thought I had settled them — saw them off home — yes, Simpson, 
and Denson, and Grey, up the High Street, and the others their 
way. I only left Axworthy going into a shop when I set off on my 
walk. What could a fellow do more ? How was I to know that 
that Axworthy would get them together again and take them to 
this affair — pull up the stakes — saw them down — for they were hard 
to get down — shy all sorts of things over into the court — hoot at 
old Tomkins’s man, when he told them to be off — and make a 
bonfire of the sticks at last ? ’ 

1 And Harvey Anderson was there ? ’ 

‘ No — not he. He is too sharp — born and bred an attorney as 
he is — he talked them up to the mischief when my back was turned, 
and then sneaked quietly home, quite innocent, and out of the 
scrape.’ 

‘ But Doctor Hoxton can never entertain a suspicion tnat you 
had anything to do with it.’ 

‘ Yes, he does though. He thinks I incited them, and Tomkins 
and the policeman declare I was there in the midst of the row — and 
not one of these fellows will explain how I came at the last to look 
for Tom.’ 

‘ Not Tom himself ? — ’ 

‘ He did try to speak, poor little fellow, but, after the other 
affair, his word goes for nothing, and so, it seems, does mine. I 
did think Hoxton would have trusted me ! ’ 

‘ And did not he ? ’ exclaimed Dr. May. 

1 He did not in so many words accuse me of — of — but he told 
me he had serious charges brought against me — Mr. Harrison had 
seen me at Ballhatchet’s, setting an example of disregard to rules 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


213 


—and, again, Mr. Harrison saw me coming in at a late hour last 
night. “ I know he did,” I said, and I explained where I had 
been, and they asked for proofs ! I could hardly answer, from 
surprise, at their not seeming to believe me, but I said you could 
answer for my having come in with the flowers for my sister.’ 

‘ To be sure I will — I’ll go this instant — ’ he was turning. 

‘ It is of no use, papa, to-night ; Dr. Hoxton has a dinner- 
party.’ 

‘ He is always having parties. I wish he would mind them less, 
and his business more. You disbelieved ! but I’ll see justice done 
you, Norman, the first thing to-morrow. Well — : 

£ Well then, I said, old Ballhatchet could tell that I crossed 
the bridge at the very time they were doing this pretty piece of 
work, for he was sitting smoking in his porch when I went home, 
and, would you believe it ? the old rascal would not remember who 
passed that evening! It is all his malice and revenge — nothing 
else ! ’ 

1 Why — what have you been doing to him ? ’ 

Norman shortly explained the ginger-beer story, and adding, 
‘ Cheviot told me I should get nothing but ill-will, and so I have — 
all those town fellows turn against me now, and though they know 
as well as possible how it was, they won’t say a word to right me, 
just out of spite, because I have stopped them from all the mis- 
chief I could !’ 

‘ Well, then—’ 

1 They asked me whether — since I allowed that I had been there 
at last — I had dispersed the boys. I said no, I had no time. Then 
they desired to know who was there, and that I had not seen ; it 
was all dark, and there had not been a moment, and if I guessed, it 
was no affair of mine to say. So they ordered me down, and had 
up Ned Anderson, and one or two more who were known to have 
been in the riot, and then they consulted a good while, and sent for 
me ; Mr. Wilmot was for me, I am sure, but Harrison was against 
me. Doctor Hoxton sat there, and made me one of his addresses. 
He said he would not enter on the question whether I had been 
present at the repetition of the outrage, as he called it, but what 
was quite certain was, that I had abused my authority and influence 
in the school ; I had been setting a bad example, and breaking the 
rules about Ballhatchet, and so far from repressing mischief, I had 
been the foremost in it, making inflammatory harangues, leading 
them to commit violence the first time, and the next, if not actually 
taking part in it personally, at any rate, not preventing it. In 
short, he said it was clear I had not weight enough for my post — it 
was some excuse I had been raised to it so young — but it was 
necessary to show that proficiency in studies did not compensate for 
disregard of discipline, and so he turned me down below the first 
six ! So there’s another Ma^ in disgrace ! ’ 


214 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 It shall not last — it shall not last, my boy/ said Dr. May, 
pressing Norman’s arm ; 1 I’ll see you righted. Dr. Hoxton shall 
hear the whole story. I am not for fathers interfering in general, 
but if ever there was a case, this is ! Why, it is almost actionable 
— injuring your whole prospects in life, and all because he will not 
♦ake the trouble to make an investigation ! It is a crying shame.’ 

‘ Every fellow in the school knows how it was,’ said Norman; 
£ and plenty of them would be glad to tell, if they had only the 
opportunity ; but he asked no one but those two or three worst 
fellows that were at the fire, and they would not tell, on purpose. 
The school will go to destruction now — they’ll get their way, and all 
I have been striving for is utterly undone.’ 

1 You setting a bad example 1 Dr. Hoxton little knows what 
you have been doing. It is a mockery, as I have always said, to see 
that old fellow sit wrapped up in his pomposity, eating his good 
dinners, and knowing no more what goes on among his boys than 
this umbrella ! But he will listen to me — and we’ll make those 
boys confess the whole — aye, and have up Ballhatchet himself, to 
say what your traffic with him was ; and we will see what old Hox- 
ton says to you then, Norman.’ 

Dr. May and his son felt keenly and spoke strongly. There 
was so much of sympathy and fellow-feeling between them, that there 
was no backwardness on Norman’s part in telling his whole trouble, 
with more confidence than school-boys often show towards their 
fathers, and Dr. May entered into the .mortification as if he were 
still at school. They did not go into the house, but walked long 
up and down the garden, working themselves up into, if possible, 
stronger indignation, and concerting the explanation for to-morrow, 
when Dr. May meant to go at once to the head master, and make 
him attend to the true version of the story, appealing to Harvey 
Anderson himself, Larkins, and many others, for witnesses. There 
could be hardly a doubt that Norman would be thus exculpated ; but, 
if Dr. Hoxton w a uld not see things in their true light, Dr. May was 
ready to take him away at once, rather than see him suffer injustice 

Still, though comforted by his father’s entire reliance, Norman 
was suffering severely under the sense of indignity, and grieved that 
Dr. Hoxton, and the other masters, should have believed him guilty 
— that name of May could never again boast of being without 
reproach. To be in disgrace stung him to the quick, even though 
undeservedly, and he could not bear to go in, meet his sisters, and 
be pitied. ‘ There’s no need they should know of it,’ said he, when 
the Minster clock pealing ten, obliged them to go in doors, and 
his father agreed. They bade each other good night, with the 
renewal of the promise that Dr. Hoxton should be forced to hear 
Norman’s vindication the first thing to-morrow, Harvey Anderson 
be disappointed of what he meanly triumphed in, and Norman be 
again in his post at the head of the school, in more honour and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 215 

confidence than ever, putting down evil, and making Stoneborough 
what it ought to be. 

As Dr. May lay awake in the summer’s morning, meditating on 
his address to Dr. Hoxton, he heard the unwelcome sound of a ring 
at the bell, and, in a few minutes, a note was brought to him. 

‘ Tell Adams to get the gig ready — I’ll let him know whether 
he is to go with me.’ 

And, in a few minutes, the Doctor opened Norman’s door, and 
found him dressed, and standing by the window, reading. ‘ What, 
up already, Norman ? I came to tell you that our affairs must wait 
till the afternoon. It is very provoking, for Hoxton may be gone 
out, but Mr. Lake’s son, at Groveswood, has an attack on the head, 
and I must go at once. It is a couple of dozen miles off or more. 
I have hardly ever been there, and it may keep me all day.’ 

‘ Shall you go in the gig ? Shall I drive you ? ’ said Norman 
looking rather blank. 

‘ That’s what I thought of, if you like it. I thought you would 
sooner be out of the way.’ 

1 Thank you — yes, papa. Shall I come and help you to finish 
dressing ? ’ 

‘ Yes, do, thank you; it will hasten matters. Only, first order 
in some breakfast. What makes you up so early ? Have not you 
slept ? ’ 

1 Not much — it has been such a hot night.’ 

1 And you have a head-ache. Well, we will find a cure for that 
before the day is over. I have settled what to say to old Hoxton.’ 

Before another quarter of an hour had passed, they were driving 
through the deep lanes, the long grass thickly laden with morning 
dew, which beaded the webs of the spiders, and rose in clouds of 
mist under the influence of the sun’s rays. There was stillness in 
the air at first, then the morning sounds, the laborer going forth, the 
world wakening to life, the opening houses, the children coming out 
to school. In spite of the tumult of feeling, Norman could not but 
be soothed and refreshed by the new and fair morning scene, and 
both minds quitted the school politics, as Dr. May talked of past 
enjoyment of walks or drives home in early dawn, the more delicious 
after a sad watch in a sick room, and told of the fair sights he had 
seen at such unwonted hours. 

They had far to go, and the heat of the day had come on before 
they entered the place of their destination. It was a woodland 
village, built on a nook in the side of the hill, sloping greenly to 
the river, and shut in by a white gate, which seemed to gather all in 
one, the little low old-fashioned church, its yard, shaded with trees, 
and enclosed by long white rails; the parsonage, covered with 
climbing plants and in the midst of a gay garden ; and one or two 
cottages. The woods cast a cool shadow, and, in the meadows by 
the river, rose cocks of new-made hay ; there was an air of abiding 


216 


JLX1I5 DAISY CHAIN. 


serenity about the whole place, save that there stood an old man 
by the gate, evidently watching for the physician’s carriage ; and 
where the sun fell on that parsonage-house was a bedroom window 
wide open, with the curtains drawn. 

1 Thank Heaven, you are come, Sir,’ said the old man — ‘ he is 
fearfully bad.’ 

Norman knew young Lake, who had been a senior boy when he 
first went to school, was a Randall scholar, and had borne an 
excellent character, and highly distinguished himself at the Uni- 
versity. And now, by all accounts, he seemed to be dying — in the 
height of honour and general esteem. Dr. May went into the 
house, the old man took .the horse, and Norman lingered under the 
trees in the church-yard, watching the white curtains now and then 
puffed by the fitful summer breeze, as he lay on the turf in the 
shade, under the influence of the gentle sadness around, resting, 
mind and body, from the tossing tumultuous passionate sensations 
that had kept him restless and miserable through the hot night. 

He waited long — one hour, two hours had passed away, but ho 
was not impatient, and hardly knew how long the time had been 
before his father and Mr. Lake came out of the house together, and, 
after they parted, Dr. May summoned him. He of course asked 
first for the patient. 1 Not quite so hopeless as at first,’ and the 
reasons for having been kept so long were detailed, with many 
circumstances of the youth’s illness, and the parents’ resignation, 
by which Dr. May was still too deeply touched to have room in his 
mind for anything besides. 

They were more than half-way home, and a silence had succeeded 
the conversation about the Lake family, when Norman spoke : 

1 Papa, I have been thinking about it, and I believe it would be 
better to let it alone, if you please.’ 

‘ Not apply to Dr. Hoxton ! ’ exclaimed his father. 

1 Well, I think not. I have been considering it, and it does 
hardly seem to me the right thing. You see, if I had not you 
close at hand, this could never be explained, and it seems rather 
hard upon Anderson, who has no father, and the other fellows, who 
have theirs further off — ’ 

‘ Right, Norman, that is what my father before me always said, 
and the way I have always acted myself ; much better let a few 
trifles go on not just as one would wish, than be for ever interfering. 
But I really think this is a case for it, and I don’t think you ought 
to let yourself be influenced by the fear of any party-spirit.’ 

1 It is not only that, papa — I have been thinking a good deal 
to-day, and there are other reasons. Of course I should wish Dr. 
Hoxton to know that I spoke the truth about that walk, and I hope 
you will let him know, as I appealed to you. But, on cooler 
thoughts, I don’t believe Dr. Hoxton could seriously suspect me of 
such a thing as that, and it was not on that ground that I am 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


217 


turned down, but that I did not keep up sufficient discipline, and 
allowed the outrage as be calls it. Now, you know, that is, after a 
fashion, true. If I had not gone on like an ass the other day, and 
incited them to pull down the fences, they would not have done it 
afterwards, and perhaps, I ought to have kept on guard longer. It 
was my fault, and we can’t deny it.’ 

Dr. May made a restless, reluctant movement. ‘ Well, well, I 
suppose it was — but it was just as much Harvey Anderson’s — and 
is he to get the scholarship because he has added meanness to the 
rest ? ’ 

‘ He was not Dux,’ said Norman, with a sigh. 1 It was more 
shabby than I thought was even in him. But I don’t know that 
the feeling about him is not one reason. There has always been a 
rivalry and bitterness between us two, and if I were to get the 
upper hand now, by means not in the usual course, such as the 
fellows would think ill of, it would be worse than ever, and I should 
always feel guilty and ashamed to look at him.’ 

‘ Over-refining, Norman,’ muttered Dr. May. 

‘ Besides, don’t you remember, when his father died, how glad 
you and everyone were to get him a nomination, and it was said 
that if he gained a scholarship, it would be such a relief to poor 
Mrs. Anderson ? Now he has this chance, it does seem hard to 
deprive her of it. I should not like to know that I had done so.’ 

1 Whew ! ’ the Doctor gave a considering whistle. 

1 You could not make it straight, papa, without explaining 
about the dealing with Ballhatchet, and that would be unfair to 
them all, even the old rogue himself ; for I promised to say nothing 
about former practices, as long as he did not renew them.’ 

4 Well ! I don’t want to compromise you, Norman. You know 
your own ground best, but I don’t like it at all. You don’t know 
the humiliation of disgrace. Those who have thought highly of 
you, now Blinking you changed — I don’t know how to bear it for 
you.’ 

4 1 don’t mind anything while you trust me,’ said Norman, 
eagerly ; £ not much I mean, except Mr. Wilmot. You must judge, 
papa, and do as you please.’ 

I No, you must judge, Norman. Ycur confidence in me ought 
not to be a restraint. It has always been an understood thing that, 
what you say at home is, as if it had not been said, as regards my 
dealings with the masters.’ 

I I know, papa. Well, I’ll tell you what brought me to this. I 
tumbled about all night in a rage, when I thought how they had 
served me, and of Hoxton’s believing it all, and how he might only 
half give in to your representation, and then I gloried in Anderson’s 
coming down from his height, and being seen in his true colours. 
So it went on till morning came, and I got up. You know you 
gave me my mother’s little Thomas a Kempis. I always react a 


218 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


bit every morning. To-day it was, “ Of four things that bring 
much inward peace.” And what do you think they were? 

“ Be desirous, my son, to do the will of another rather than 
thine own. 

“ Choose always to have less rather than more. 

“ Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior to everyone. 

“ Wish always and pray that the will of God may be wholly 
fulfilled in thee.” 

‘ I liked them the more, because it was just like her last reading 
with us, and like that letter. — Well, then I wondered as I lay on 
the grass at Groveswood, whether she would have thought it best 
for me to be reinstated, and I found out that I should have been 
rather afraid of what you might say when she had talked it over 
with you.’ 

Dr. May smiled a little at the simplicity with which this last 
was said, hut his smile ended in one of his heavy sighs. ‘ So you 
took her for your counsellor, my boy. That was the way to find 
out what was right.’ 

‘Well, there was something in the place, and, in watching poor 
Lake’s windows, that made me not able to dwell so much on getting 
on, and having prizes and scholarships. I thought that caring for 
those had been driven out of me, and you know I never felt as if it 
were my right when I was made Dux ; but now I find it is all 
come back. It does not do for me to be first ; I have been what 
she called elated, and been more peremptory than need with the 
lower boys, and gone on in my old way with Pilchard, and so I 
suppose this disgrace has come to punish me. I wish it were not 
disgrace, because of our name at school, and because it will vex 
Harry so muck ; but since it is come, considering all things, I sup- 
pose I ought not to struggle to justify myself at other people’s ex- 
pense.’ 

His eyes were so dazzled with tears, that he could hardly see to 
drive, nor did his father speak at first. ‘ I can’t say anything 
against it, Norman, but I am sorry, and one thing more you should 
consider. If Dr. Hoxton should view this absurd business in the 
way he seems to do, it will stand in your way for ever in testi- 
monials, if you try for anything else.’ 

‘ Do you think it will interfere with my having a Confirmation 
ticket ? ’ 

‘ Why no, I should not think — such a boyish escapade could be 
no reason for refusing you one.’ 

‘Very well then, it had better rest. If there should be any 
difficulty about my being Confirmed, of course we will explain it.’ 

‘ I wish every one showed themselves as well prepared ! ’ half- 
muttered the Doctor; then, after long musing, ‘well, Norman, I 
give up the scholarship. Poor Mrs. Anderson wants it more than 
we do, and if the boy is a shabby fellow, the more he wants a decent 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


219 


education. But what do you say to this ? I make Hoxton do you 
full justice, and reinstate you in your proper place, and then I take 
you away at once — send you to a tutor — anything, till the end of 
the long vacation.’ 

1 Thank you,’ said Norman, pausing ; 1 1 don’t know, papa. I am 
very much obliged to you, but I think it would hardly do. You 
would be uncomfortable at seeming to quarrel with Dr. Hoxton, 
and it would be hardly creditable for me to go off in anger.’ 

‘ You are right, I believe,’ said Dr. May. 1 You judge wisely, 
though I should not have ventured to ask it of you. But what is 
to become of the discipline of the school ? Is that all to go to the 
dogs ? ’ 

‘ I could not do anything with them if I were restored in this 
way ; they would be more set against me. It is bad enough as it 
is, but, even for my own peace, I believe it is better to leave it alone. 
All my comfort in school is over, I know ! ’ and he sighed deeply. 

‘ It is a most untoward business ! ’ said the Doctor. 1 1 am very 
sorry your school-days should be clouded — but it can’t be helped, 
and you will work yourself into a character again. You are full 
young, and can stay for the next Bandall.’ 

Norman felt as if, while his father looked at him as he now did, 
the rest of the world were nothing to him ; but, perhaps, the driving 
past the school brought him to a different mind, for he walked into 
the house slowly and dejectedly. 

He told his own story to Ethel, in the garden, not without much 
difficulty, so indignant were her exclamations ,* and it was impossible 
to make her see that his father’s interference would put him in an 
awkward position among the boys. She would argue vehemently 
that she could not bear Mr. Wilmot to think ill of him, that it was 
a great shame of Dr. Hoxton, and that it was dreadful to let such a 
boy as Harvey Anderson go unpunished. * I really do think it is 
quite wrong of you to give up your chance of doing good, and leave 
him in his evil ways ! ’ That was all the comfort she gave Norman, 
and she walked in to pour out a furious grumbling upon Margaret. 

Dr. May had been telling the elder ones, and they were in con- 
versation after he had left them — Margaret talking with animation, 
and Flora sitting over her drawing, uttering reluctant assents. 
Has he told you, poor fellow ? ’ asked Margaret. 

1 Yes,’ said Ethel. i Was there ever such a shame ? ’ 

1 That is just what I say,’ observed Flora. ‘ I cannot see why 
the Andersons are to have a triumph over all of us.’ 

‘ I used to think Harvey the best of the two,’ said Ethel. ‘ Now, 
*1 think he is a great deal the worst. Taking advantage of such a 
mistake as this ! How will he ever look Norman in the face.’ 

1 Really,’ said Margaret, 1 1 see no use in aggravating ourselves 
by talking of the Andersons.’ 


220 


THE DAISY CIIAIIT. 


4 1 can’t think how papa can consent,’ proceeded Flora. 4 I am 
sure, if I were in his place, I should not ! ’ 

‘ Papa is so much pleased with dear Norman’s behaviour, that it 
quite makes up for all the disappointment,’ said Margaret. 4 Besides, 
he is very much obliged to him in one way ; he would not have 
liked to have to battle the matter with Dr. Hoxton. He spoke of 
Norman’s great good judgment.’ 

‘.Yes, Norman can persuade papa to anything,’ said Flora. 

4 Yes, I wish papa had not yielded,’ said Ethel. 4 It would 
have been just as noble in dear Norman, and we should not have 
the apparent disgrace.’ 

4 Perhaps it is best as it is, after all,’ said Flora. 

4 Why, how do you mean ? ’ said Ethel. 

4 1 think very likely things might have come out. Now, don’t 
look furious, Ethel. Indeed, I can’t help it, but really I don’t 
think it is explicable why Norman should wish to hush it up, unless 
there were something behind ! ’ 

4 Flora ! ’ cried Ethel, too much shocked to bring out another 
word. 

4 If you are unfortunate enough to have such suspicions,’ said 
Margaret, quietly, 4 1 think it would be better to be silent.’ 

4 As if you did not know Norman ! ’ stammered Ethel. 

4 Well,’ said Flora, 4 1 don’t wish to think so. You know I did 
not hear Norman himself, and when papa gives his vehement ac- 
counts of things, it always puzzles us of the cooler-minded sort.’ 

4 It is as great a shame as ever I heard ! ’ cried Ethel, recovering 
her utterance. 4 Who would you trust, if not your own father and 
brother ? ’ 

4 Yes, yes,’ said Flora, not by any means wishing to displease 
her sisters. 4 If there is such a thing as an excess of generosity, it 
is sure to be among ourselves. I only know it does not suit me. 
It will make us all uncomfortable whenever we meet the Andersons 
or Mr. Wilmot, or anyone else, and as to such tenderness to Harvey 
Anderson, I think it is thrown away.’ 

4 Thrown away on the object, perhaps,’ said Margaret, 4 but not 
m Norman.’ 

4 To be sure,’ broke out Ethel. 4 Better be than seem ! Oh, 
dear ! I am sorry I was vexed with dear old June when he told me. 
I had rather have him now than if he had gained everything, and 
everyone was praising him — that I had! Harvey Anderson is 
welcome to be Dux and Eandall scholar for what I care, while 
Norman is — while he is, just what we thought of the last time wo 
read that Gospel — you know, Margaret ? ’ 

4 He is — that he is,’ said Margaret, 4 and indeed, it is most 
beautiful to see how what has happened has brought him at once to 
what she wished, when perhaps, otherwise it would have been a 
work of loo v time.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


221 


Ethel was entirely consoled. Flora thought of tie words ‘ tete 
exaltee ,’ and considered herself alone to have sober sense enough 
to see things in a true light — not that she went the length of believ- 
ing that Norman had any underhand motives, but she thought it 
very discreet in her to think a prudent father would not have been 
satisfied with such a desire to avoid investigation. 

Dr. May would not trust himself to enter on the subject with 
Dr. Hoxton in conversation ; he only wrote a note. 

‘ Dear Dr. Hoxton, « June 16th. 

‘ My son has appealed to me to confirm his account of himself on Thurs- 
day evening last. I therefore distinctly state that he came in at half-past nine, 
with his hands full of plants from the river, and that he then went out again, by 
my desire, to look for his little brother. 

‘ Yours, very truly, 

‘ R. May.’ 

A long answer came in return, disclaiming all doubt of Norman’s 
veracity, and explaining Dr. Hoxton’s grounds for having degraded 
him. There had been misconduct in the school, he said, for some 
time past, and he did not consider that it was any very serious 
reproach to a boy of Norman’s age, that he had not had weight 
enough to keep up his authority, and had been carried away by the 
general feeling. It had been necessary to make an example for the 
sake of principle, and though very sorry it should have fallen on 
one of such high promise and general good conduct, Dr. Hoxton 
trusted that it would not be any permanent injury to his prospects, 
as his talents had raised him to his former position in the school so 
much earlier than usual. 

‘ The fact was,’ said Dr. May, 1 that old Hoxton did it in a pas- 
sion, feeling he must punish somebody, and now, finding there’s no 
uproar about it, he begins to be sorry. I won’t answer this note. 
I’ll stop after church to-morrow and shake hands, and that will 
show we don’t bear malice.’ 

Wliat Mr. Wilmot might think, was felt by all to affect them 
more nearly. Ethel wanted to hear that he declared his complete 
conviction of Norman’s innocence, and was disappointed to find that 
he did not once allude to the subject. She was only consoled by 
Margaret’s conjecture that, perhaps, he thought the head-master 
had been hasty, and could not venture to say so — he saw into 
people’s characters, and it was notorious that it was just what Dr. 
Hoxton did not. 

Tom had spent the chief of that Saturday in reading a novel 
borrowed from Axworthy, keeping out of sight of everyone. All 
Sunday he avoided Norman more scrupulously than ever, and again 
on Monday. That day was a severe trial to Norman; the taking 
the lower place, and the sense that, excel as much as ever he might 
in his studies, it would not avail to restore him to his former place 


222 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


were more unpleasant, when it came to the point, than he hud ex- 
pected. 

He saw the cold manner, so different from the readiness with 
which his tasks had always been met, certain as they were of being 
well done ; he found himself among the common herd whom he had 
passed so triumphantly, and, for a little while, he had no heart to 
exert himself. 

This was conquered by the strong will and self-rebuke for hav- 
ing merely craved for applause, but, in the play-ground, he found 
himself still alone — the other boys who had been raised by his fall, 
shrank from intercourse with one whom they had injured by their 
silence, and the Andersons, who were wont to say the Mays carried 
every tale home, and who still almost expected interference from 
Dr. May, hardly believed their victory secure, and the younger one, 
at least, talked spitefully, and triumphed in the result of May’s 
meddling and troublesome over strictness. 1 Such prigs always 
come to a downfall,’ was the sentiment. 

Norman found himself left out of everything, and stood dis- 
pirited and weary on the bank of the river, wishing for Harry, 
wishing for Cheviot, wishing that he had been able to make a friend 
who would stand by him, thinking it could not be worse if he had 
let his father reinstate him — and a sensation of loneliness and in- 
justice hung heavy at his heart. 

His first interruption was a merry voice. 1 1 say, June, there’s 
no end of river cray-fish under that bank,’ and Larkins’ droll face 
was looking up at him, from that favourite position, lialf-stooping, 
his hands on his knees, his expression of fun trying to conceal his 
real anxiety and sympathy. 

Norman turned and smiled, and looked for the cray-fish, and, at 
the same time, became aware of Hector Ernescliffe watching for an 
opportunity to say, 1 1 have a letter from Alan.’ He knew they 
wanted, as far as little boys ventured to seek after one so much 
their elder, to show themselves his friends, and he was grateful ; he 
roused himself to hear about Alan’s news, and found it was impor- 
tant — his great friend, Captain Gordon, had got a ship, and hoped 
to be able to take him, and this might lead to Harry’s going with 
him. Then Norman applied himself to the capture of cray-fish, 
and Larkins grew so full of fun and drollery, that the hours of 
recreation passed off less gloomily than th jy had begun. 

If only his own brother would have been his adherent ! But he 
saw almost nothing of Tom. Day after day he missed him, he was 
off before him in going and returning from school, and when he 
caught a sight of his face, it looked harassed, pale, and miserable, 
stealing anxious glances after him, yet shrinking from his eye. 
But, at the same time, Norman did not see him mingling with his 
former friends, and could not make out how he disposed of himself. 
To be thus continually shunned by his own brother, even when the 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


223 


general mass were returning to ordinary terms, became so painful, 
that Norman was always on the watch to seek for one more con- 
versation with him. 

He caught him at last in the evening, just as they were going 
home. ‘ Tom, why are you running away? Come with me,’ said 
he, authoritatively; and Tom obeyed in trembling. 

Norman led the way to the meads. 1 Tom,’ said he , 1 do not let 
this go on. Why do you serve me in this way ? You surely need 
not turn against me,’ he said, with pleading melancholy in his voice. 

It was not needed. Tom had flung himself upon the grass, and 
was in an agony of crying, even before he had finished the words. 

1 Tom, Tom ! what is the matter ? Have they been bullying 
you again ? Look up, and tell me — what is it ? You know I can 
stand by you still, if you’ll only let me; ’ and Norman sat by him 
on the grass, and raised his face by a sort of force, but the kind 
words only brought more piteous sobs. It was a long time before 
they diminished enough to let him utter a word, but Norman went 
on patiently consoling and inquiring, sure, at least, that here had 
broken down the sullenness that had always repelled him. 

At last came the words, 1 Oh ! I cannot bear it. It is all my 
doing ! ’ 

I What — how — you don’t mean this happening to me ? It is 
not your doing, August — what fancy is this ? ’ 

‘ 0 yes, it is,’ said Tom, his voice cut short by gasps, the re- 
mains of the sobs. ‘ They would not hear me ! I tried to tell 
them how you told them not, and sent them home. I tried to tell 
about Ballhatchet — but — but they wouldn’t — they said if it had 
been Harry, they would have attended — but they would not believe 
me. Oh ! if Harry was but here! ’ 

I I wish he was,’ said Norman, from the bottom of his heart; 
but you see, Tom, if this sets you on always telling truth, I shan’t 

think any great harm done.’ 

A fresh burst. ‘ Oh ! they are all so glad ! They say such things ! 
And the Mays were never in disgrace before. O Norman, Norman ! ’ 

* Never mind about that, — ’ began Norman. 

‘ But you would mind,’ broke in the boy, passionately, ‘ if you 
knew what Anderson junior, and Axworthy say! They say it 
serves you right, and they were going to send me to old Ball- 
hatchet’s to get some of his stuff to drink confusion to the mouth 
of June, and all pragmatical meddlers ; and when I said I could 
not go, they vowed if I did not, I should eat the corks for them ! 
And Anderson junior called me names, and licked me. Look there.’ 
He showed a dark blue-and-red stripe, raised on the palm of his 
hand. 1 1 could not write well for it these three days, and Hawes 
gave me double copies ! ’ 

< The cowardly fellows ! ’ exclaimed Norman, indignantly. ‘ But 
you did not go ? 


224 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘No, Anderson senior stopped them. He said he. would not 
have the Ballhatchet business begin again.’ 

‘ That is one comfort,’ said Norman. ‘ I see he does not dare 
not to keep order. But if you’ll only stay with me, August, I’ll 
take care they don’t hurt you.’ 

‘Oh! June! June!’ and he threw himself across his kind 
brother. ‘ I am so very sorry ! Oh ! to see you put down — and 
hear them ! And you to lose the scholarship ! Oh, dear ! oh, 
dear ! and be in disgrace with them all ! ’ 

‘ But, Tom, do cheer up. It is nothing to be in such distress 
at. Papa knows all about it, and while he does, I d>m’t care half 
so much.’ 

‘ O, I wish — I wish — ’ 

‘ You see, Tom,’ said Norman, ‘ after all, though it is very kind 
of you to be sorry for not being able to get me out of this scrape, 
the thing one wants you to be sorry about, is your own affair.’ 

‘ I wish I had never come to school ! I wish Anderson would 
leave me alone ! It is all his fault ! A mean-spirited, skulking, 
bullying — ’ 

‘ Hush, hush, Tom, he is bad enough, but now you know what 
he is, you can keep clear of him for the future. Now listen. You 
and I will make a fresh start, and try if we can’t get the Mays to 
be looked on as they were when Harry was here. Let us mind the 
rules, and get into no more mischief.’ 

‘ You’ll keep me from Ned Anderson and Ax worthy ? ’ whispered 
Tom. 

‘ Yes, that I will. And you’ll try and speak the truth, and be 
straightforward ? ’ 

‘ I will, I will,’ said Tom, worn out in spirits by his long bond- 
age, and glad to catch at the hope of relief and protection. 

‘ Then let us come home,’ and Tom put his hand into his 
brother’s, as a few weeks back would have seemed most unworthy 
of school-boy dignity. 

Thenceforth Tom was devoted to Norman, and kept close to 
him, sure that the instant he was from under his wing, his former 
companions would fall on him to revenge his defection, but clinging 
to him also from real affection and gratitude. Indolence and timidity 
were the true root of what had for a time seemed like a positively 
bad disposition; beneath, there was a warm heart, and sense of 
right, which had been almost stifled for the time, in the desire, 
from moment to moment, to avoid present trouble or fear. Under 
Norman’s care his better self had freer scope, he was guarded from 
immediate terror, and kept from the suggestions of the worst sort 
of boys, as much as was in his brother’s power ; and the looks they 
cast towards him, and the sly torments they attempted to inflict, 
by no means invited him back to them. The lessons, where he had 
a long inveterate habit of shuffling, came under Norman’s eye at 


THE DAISY CIIAlU’. 


225 


the same time. He always prepared them in his presence, instead 
of in the most secret manner possible, and with all Anderson’s ex- 
peditious modes of avoiding the making them of any use. Norman 
sat by, and gave such help as was fair and just, showed him how to 
learn, and explained difficulties, and the ingenuity hitherto spent 
in eluding learning being now directed to gaining it, he began to 
make real progress, and find satisfaction in it. The comfort of 
being good dawned upon him once more, but still there was much 
to contend with; he had acquired such a habit of prevarication, 
that, if by any means taken by surprise, his impulse was to avoid 
giving a straightforward, answer, and when he recollected his sin- 
cerity, the truth came with the air of falsehood. Moreover, he was 
an arrant coward, and provoked tricks by his manifest and unrea- 
sonable terrors. It was no slight exercise of patience that Norman 
underwent, but this was the interest he had made for himself; and 
the recovery of the boy’s attachment, and his improvement, though 
slow, were a present recompense. 

Ernescliffe, Larkins, and others of the boys, held fast to him, 
and after the first excitement was past, all the rest returned to their 
former tone. He was decidedly as much respected as ever, and, at 
the same time, regarded with more favour than when his strictness 
was resented. And as for the discipline of the school, that did not 
suffer. Anderson felt that, for his own credit, he must not allow 
the rules to be less observed than in May’s reign, and he enforced 
them upon the reluctant and angry boys, with whom he had been 
previously making common ; cause. Hr. Hoxton boasted to the 
under-masters that the school had never been in such good order as 
under Anlerson, little guessing that this was but reaping the fruits 
of a past victory, or that every boy in the whole school gave the 
highest place in their esteem to the deposed Hux. 

T 2 Anderson, Norman’s cordial manner and ready support, were 
the strangest part of all, only explained by thinking that he deemed 
it, as he tried to do himself, merely the fortune of war, and was 
sensible of no injury. 

And, for Norman himself, when the first shock was over, and he 
was accustomed to the change, he found the cessation of vigilance a 
relief, and carried a lighter heart than any time since his mother’s 
death. His sisters could not help observing that there was less 
sadness in the expression of his eyes, that he carried his head higher, 
walked with freedom and elasticity of step, tossed and flourished 
the Daisy till she shouted and crowed, while Margaret shrank at 
such freaks ; and, though he was not much of a laugher himself, 
contributed much sport in the way of bright apposite sayings to the 
home circle. 

It was a very unexpected mode of cure for depression of spirits, 
but there could be no question that it succeeded ; and when, a few 
Saturdays after, he drove Dr. May again to Groveswood-to see young 


226 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Mr. Lake, who was recovering, he brought Margaret home a whols 
pile of botanical curiosities, and drew his father into ar. animated 
battle over natural and Linnaean systems which kept the whole 
party merry with the pros and cons every evening for a week. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

‘Oh! the golden-hearted daisies, 

Witnessed there before my youth, 

To the truth of things, with praises 
Of the beauty of the truth.’ 

E. B. Browning. 

‘ Margaret, see here.’ 

The Doctor threw into her lap a letter, which made her cheeks 
light up.. 

Mr. Ernescliffe wrote that his father’s friend, Captain Gor- 
don, having been appointed to the frigate Alcestis, had chosen him 
as one of his lieutenants, and offered a nomination as naval cadet 
for his brother. He had replied that the navy was not Hector’s 
destination, but, as Captain Gordon had no one else in view, had 
prevailed on him to pass on the proposal to Harry May. 

Alan wrote in high terms of his captain, declaring that he es- 
teemed the having sailed with him as one of the greatest advantages 
he had ever received, and adding, that, for his own part, Dr. May 
needed no promise from him, to be assured that he would watch 
over Harry like his own brother. It was believed that the Alcestis 
was destined for the South American station. 

* A three years’ business,’ said Dr. May, w r ith a sigh. 1 But the 
thing is done, and this is as good as we can hope.’ 

‘ Ear better ! ’ said Margaret. 1 What pleasure it must have 
given him ! Dear Harry could not sail under more favourable cir- 
cumstances.’ 

‘ No, I would trust to Ernescliffe as I would to Richard. It is 
kindly done, and I will thank him at once. Where does he date 
from V ’ 

‘ From Portsmouth. Ho does not say whether he has seen 
Harry.’ 

‘ I suppose he waited for my answer. Suppose I inclose a note 
for him to give to Harry. There will be rapture enough, and it is 
a pity he should not have the benefit of it.’ 

The Doctor sat down to write, while Margaret worked and 
mused, perhaps on outfits and new shirts — perhaps on Harry’s lion- 
locks, beneath a blue cap and gold band, or, perchance, on the coral 
shoals of the Pacific. 

It was one of the quiet afternoons, when all the rest were out, 
and which the Doctor and his daughter especially valued, when they 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


227 


were able to spend one together without interruption. Soon, how- 
ever, a ring at the door brought an impatient exclamation from the 
Doctor ; but his smile beamed out at the words, ‘ Miss Rivers.’ They 
were great friends; in fact, on terms of some mutual sauciness, 
though Meta was, as yet, far less at home with his daughters, and 
came in, looking somewhat shy. 

1 Ah, your congeners are gone out ! ’ was the Doctor’s reception 
' You must put up with our sober selves.’ 

‘ Is Flora gone far ? ’ asked Meta. 

‘ To Cocksmoor,’ said Margaret. ‘ I am very sorry she ha3 
missed you.’ 

‘ Shall I be in your way ? ’ said Meta, timidly. ‘ Papa has several 
things to do, and said he would call for me here.’ 

‘ G-ood luck for Margaret,’ said Dr. May. 

‘ So they are gone to Cocksmoor ! ’ said Meta. ‘ How I envy 
them ! ’ 

‘ You would not, if you saw the place,’ said Dr. May. ‘ I be- 
lieve Norman is very angry with me for letting ihem go near it.’ 

‘ Ah ! but they are of real use there ! ’ 

‘ And Miss Meta is obliged to take to envying the black-hole of 
Cocksmoor, instead of being content with the eglantine bowers of 
Abbotstoke ! I commiserate her ! ’ said the Doctor. 

If I did any good instead of harm at Abbotstoke ! ’ 

1 Harm ! ’ exclaimed Margaret. 

‘ They went on very well without me,’ said Meta ; ‘ but ever since 
I have had the class, they have been getting naughtier and noiser 
every Sunday ; and, last Sunday, the prettiest of all — the one I 
liked best, and had done everything for — she began to mimic me — 
held up her finger, as I did, and made them all laugh ! ’ 

‘ Well, that is very bad ! ’ said Margaret; ‘but I suppose she was 
a very little one.’ 

‘No, a quick, clever one, who knew much better, about nine 
years old. She used to be always at home in the week, dragging 
about a great baby ; and we managed that her mother should afford 
to stay at home, and send her to school. It seemed such a pity her 
cleverness should be wasted.’ 

The Doctor smiled. ‘ Ah ! depend upon it, the tyrant-baby was 
the best disciplinarian.’ 

Meta looked extremely puzzled. 

‘ Papa means,’ said Margaret, ‘ that if she was inclined to be 
conceited, the being teased at home might do her more good than 
being brought forward at school.’ 

‘ I have done everything wrong, it seems,’ said Meta, with a 
shade of what the French call depit. ‘ I thought it must be right 
and good — but it has only done mischief; and now papa says they 
are an ungrateful set, and that, if it vexes me, I had better have no 
more to do with them ! ’ 


228 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ It does not vex you so much as that, I hope,’ said Margaret. 

‘ 0, I could not hear that! 5 said Meta; ‘ hut it is so different 
from what I thought ! ’ 

‘ Ah ! you had an Arcadia of good little girls in straw hats, such 
as I see in Blanche’s little hooks,’ said the Doctor, ‘ all making tho 
young lady an oracle, and doing wrong — if they do it at all — in the 
simplest way, just for an example to the others.’ 

‘ Dr. May ! How can you know so well ? But do you really 
think it is their fault, or mine ? ’ 

‘ Do you think me a conjurer ? ’ 

‘ Well, hut what do you think ? ’ 

‘What do Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot think ? ’ 

‘ 1 know Mrs. Wilmot thinks I spoil my class. She spoke to 
me about making favourites, and sometimes has seemed surprised 
at things which I have done. Last Sunday she told me she thought 
I had better have a steadier class, and I know whom she will give 
me — the great big, stupid ones, at the bottom of the first class ! I 
do believe it is only out of good-nature that she does not tell me 
not to teach at all. I have a great mind I will not ; I know I do 
nothing but harm.’ 

‘ What shall you say if I tell you I think so too ? ’ asked the 
Doctor. 

‘ 0, Dr. May ! you don’t really ? Now, does he, Miss May ? I 
am sure I only want to do them good. I don’t know what I can 
have done.’ 

Margaret made her perceive that the Doctor was smiling, and 
she changed her tone, and earnestly begged to be told what they 
thought of the case ; for if she should show her concern at home, 
her father and governess would immediately beg her to cease from 
all connection with the school, and she did not feel at all convinced 
that Mrs. Wilmot liked to have her there. Feeling injured by the 
implied accusation of mismanagement, yet, with a sense of its truth, 
used to be petted, and new to rebuffs, yet with a sincere wish to act 
rightly, she was much perplexed by this, her first reverse, and had 
come partly with the view of consulting Flora, though she had fallen 
on other counsellors. 

‘Margaret, our adviser general,’ said the Doctor, ‘what do you 
say ? Put yourself in the place of Mrs. Charles Wilmot, and say, 
shall Miss Kivers teach, or not ? ’ 

‘ I had rather you would, papa*’ 

‘ Not I — I never kept school.’ 

‘ Well, then, I being Mrs. Wilmot, should certainly be mortified 
if Miss Bivers deserted me, because the children were naughty. I 
think, I think I had rather she came and asked me what she had 
better do.’ 

‘ And you would answer “ teach,” for fear of vexing her,’ said 
Meta 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


229 


‘ I should, and also for the sake of letting her learn to teach.’ 

‘ The point where only trial shows one’s ignorance,’ said Dr, 
May. 

‘ But I don’t want to do it for ray own sake,’ said Meta. ‘ I do 
everything for my own sake already.’ 

I For theirs, then,’ said the Doctor. £ If teaching will not come 
by nature, you must serve an apprenticeship, if you mean to be of 
service in that line. Perhaps, it was the gift that the fairies 
omitted.’ 

‘ But will it do any good to them ? ’ 

I I can’t tell ; but I am sure it would do them harm for you to 
give it up, because it is disagreeable.’ 

‘ Well,’ said Meta, with a sigh, ‘ I’ll go and talk to Mrs. Wilmot. 
I could not bear to give up anything that seems right, just now, 
because of the Confirmation.’ 

Margaret eagerly inquired, and it appeared that the Bishop had 
given notice for a confirmation in August, and that Mr. Wilmot was 
already beginning to prepare his candidates, whilst Mr. Ramsden, 
always tardy, never gave notice till the last moment possible. The 
hope was expressed that Harry might be able to profit by this 
opportunity ; and Harry’s prospects were explained to Meta ; then 
the Doctor, recollecting something that he wished to say to Mr. 
Rivers, began to ask about the chance of his coming before the time 
of an engagement of his own. 

1 He said he should be here at about half-past four,’ said Meta. 
1 He is gone to the station to inquire about the trains. Do you 
know what time the last comes in ? ’ 

‘ At nine forty-five,’ said the Doctor. 

‘ That is what we were afraid of. It is for Bellairs, my maid. 
Her mother is very ilk ani she is afraid she is not properly nursed. 
It is about five miles from the Milbury Station, and we thought of 
letting her go with a day-ticket, to see about her. She could go in 
the morning, after I am up ; but I don’t know what is to be done, 
for she could not get back before I dress for dinner.’ 

Margaret felt perfectly aghast at the cool tone, especially aftei 
what had passed. 

‘ It would be quite impossible,’ said the Doctor. 1 Even going by 
the eight o’clock train, and returning by the last, she would only 
iave two hours to spare — short enough measure for a sick mother.’ 

1 Papa means to give her whatever she wants for any nurse she 
may get.’ 

1 Is there no one with her mother now V ' 

1 A son’s wife, who, they think, is not kind. Poor Bellairs was 
30 grateful for being allowed to go home. I wonder if I could dress 
for once without her.’ 

1 Do you know old Crabbe ? ’ said the Doctor. 

1 The dear old man at Abbot stoke ? 0 yes, of course.’ 


230 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 There was a very sad case in his family. The mother was dying 
of a lingering illness, when the son met with a bad accident. The 
only daughter was a lady’s maid, and could not be spared, though 
the brother was half crazy to see her, and there was no one to tend 
them but a wretch of a woman, paid by the parish. The poor 
fellow kept calling for his sister in his delirium, and, at last, I could 
not help writing to the mistress.’ 

1 Did she let her come ? ’ said Meta, her cheek glowing. 

1 As a great favour, she let her set out by the mail train, after 
dressing her for a ball, with orders to return in time for tier toilette 
for an evening party the next day.’ 

1 0, I remember,’ said Margaret, 1 her coming here at five in the 
morning, and your taking her home.’ 

1 And when we got to Abbotstoke, the brother was dead. That 
parish nurse had not attended to my directions, and, I do believe, 
was the cause of it. The mother had had a seizure, and was in the 
most precarious state. 

1 Surely she stayed ! ’ 

I It was as much as her place was worth,’ said the Doctor; 1 and 
her wages were the chief maintenance of the family. So she had to 
go back to dress her mistress, while the old woman lay there, wailing 
after Betsy. She did give warning then, but, before the month was 
out, the mother was dead.’ 

Meta did not speak, and Dr. May presently rose, saying, he should 
try to meet Mr. Rivers in the town, and went out. Meta sat 
thoughtful, and, at last, sighing, said, ‘ I wonder whether Bellairs’ 
mother is so very ill ? I have a great mind to let Susan try to do 
my hair, and let Bellairs stay a little longer. I never thought of 
that.’ 

I I do noi think you will be sorry,’ said Margaret. 

1 Yes, I shall, for if my hair does not look nice, papa will not be 
pleased, and there is aunt Leonora coming. TIow odd it will be to 
be without Bellairs ! I will ask Mrs. Larpent.’ 

‘ Oh, yes ! ’ said Margaret. ‘ You must not think we meant to 
advise; but papa has seen so many instances of distress, from 
servants not spared to their friends in illness, that he feels strongly 
on the subject.’ 

1 And I really might have been as cruel as that woman ! ’ said Meta. 
‘ Well, I hope Mrs. Bellairs may be better, and able to spare her 
daughter. I don’t know what will become of me without her.’ 

‘ I think it will have been a satisfaction in or.e way,’ said 
Margaret. 

L In what way ? ’ 

1 Don’t you remember what you began by complaining of, that you 
could not be of use ? Now I fancy this would give you the pleasure 
»f undergoing a little personal inconvenience for the good of 
another.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


231 


Meta looked half puzzled, half thoughtful, and Margaret, who 
was a little uneasy at the style of counsel she found herself giving, 
changed the conversation. 

It was a memorable one to little Miss Rivers, opening out to her 
as did almost all her meetings with that family, a new scope for 
thought and for duty. The code, to which she had been brought 
up, taught that servants were the machines of their employer’s con- 
venience. Good-nature occasioned much kindliness of manner and 
intercourse, and every luxury and indulgence was afforded freely ; 
but where there was any want of accordance between the convenience 
of the two parties, there was no question. The master must be the 
first object, the servants’ remedy was in their own hands. 

Amiable as was Mr. Rivers, this, merely from indulgence and 
want of reflection, was his principle ; and his daughter had only been 
acting on it, though she did not know it, till the feelings, that she 
had never thought of, were thus displayed before her. These were 
her first practical lessons that life was not meant to be passed in 
pleasing ourselves, and being good-natured at small cost. 

It was an effort. Meta was very dependant, never having been 
encouraged to be otherwise, and Bellairs was like a necessary of life 
in her estimation; but strength of principle came to aid her naturally 
kind-hearted feeling, and she was pleased by the idea of voluntarily 
undergoing a privation, so as to test her sincerity. 

So when her father told her of the inconvenient times of the 
trains, and declared that Bellairs must give it up, she answered, by 
proposing to let her sleep a night or two there, gaily promised to 
manage very well, and satisfied him. 

Iler maid’s grateful looks and thanks recompensed her when she 
made the offer to her, and inspirited her to an energetic coaxing of 
Mrs. Larpent, who, being more fully aware than her father, of the 
needfulness of th.3 lady’s maid, and also very anxious that her darling 
should appear to the best advantage before the expected aunt, 
Lady Leonora Langdale, was unwilling to grant more than one night 
at the utmost. 

Meta carried the day, and her last assurance to Bellairs was, that 
she might stay as long as seemed necessary to make her mother 
comfortable. 

Thereupon Meta found herself more helpful in some matters than 
she had expected, but at a loss in others. Susan, with all Mrs. 
Larpent’s supervision could not quite bring her dress to the air that 
was sc peculiarly graceful and becoming ; and she often caught her 
papa’s eye, looking at her as if he saw something amiss, and could 
not discover what it was. Then came aunt Leonora, always very 
kind to Meta, but the dread of the rest of the household, whom 
she was wont to lecture on the proper care of her niece. Miss Rivers 
was likely to have a considerable fortune, and Lady Leonora intended 


232 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


her to be a very fashionable and much admired young lady, undei 
her own immediate protection. 

The two cousins, Leonora and Agatha, talked to her ; the one of 
her balls, the other of her music — patronized her, and called her 
their good little cousin — while they criticised the stiff set of those 
unfortunate plaits made by Susan, and laughed, as if it was an 
unheard-of concession, at Bellairs’ holiday. 

Nevertheless, when ‘ Honoured Miss 5 received a note, begging 
for three days’ longer grace, till a niece should come, in whom 
Bellairs could place full confidence, she took it on herself to return 
free consent. Lady Leonora found out what she had done, and 
reproved her, telling her it was only the way to make 1 those people ’ 
presume, and Mrs. Larpent was also taken to task; but, decidedly, 
Meta did not regret what she had done, though she felt as if she 
had never before known how to appreciate comfort, when she once 
more beheld Bellairs stationed at her toilette table. 

Meta was asked about her friends. She could not mention any- 
one but Mrs. Charles Wilmot and the Miss Mays. 

‘ Physician’s daughters ; oh ! ’ said Lady Leonora. 

And she proceeded to exhort Mr. Rivers to bring his daughter to 
London, or its neighbourhood, where she might have masters, and 
be in the way of forming intimacies suited to her connections. 

Mr. Rivers dreaded London — never was well there, and did not 
like the trouble of moving — while Meta was so attached to the 
Grange, that she entreated him not to think of leaving it, and greatly 
dreaded her aunt’s influence. Lady Leonora did, indeed, allow that 
the Grange was a very pretty place ; her only complaint was, the 
want of suitable society for Meta ; she could not bear the idea of her 
growing accustomed — for want of something better — to the Vicar’s 
wife, and the pet Doctor’s daughters. 

Flora had been long desirous to effect a regular call at Abbotstoke, 
and it was just now that she succeeded. Mrs. Charles Wilmot’s 
little girl was to have a birth-day feast, at which Mary, Blanche, 
and Aubrey were to appear. Flora went in charge of them, and as 
soon as she had safely deposited them, and appointed Mary to keep 
Aubrey out of mischief, she walked up to the Grange, not a whit 
daunted by the report of the very fine ladies, who were astonishing 
the natives of Abbotstoke. 

She was admitted, and found herself in the drawing-room, with a 
quick lively-looking lady, whom she perceived to be Lady Leonora, 
and who instantly began talking to her very civilly. Flora was 
never at a loss, and they got on extremely well ; her ease and self- 
possession, without forwardness, telling much to her advantage. 
Meta came in, delighted to see her, but, of course, the visit resulted 
in no really intimate talk, though it was not without effect. Flora 
declared Lady Leonora Langdale to be a most charming person ; 
and Lady Leonora, on her side, asked Meta who was that very 


HIE DAISY CHAIN. 


233 


elegant conversible girl. 1 Flora May,’ was the delighted answer, 
now that the aunt had committed herself by commendation. And 
she did not retract it ; she pronounced Flora to be something quite 
out of the common way, and supposed that she had had unusual 
advantages. 

Mr. Rivers took care to introduce to his sister-in-law, Dr. May, 
(who would fain have avoided it,) but ended by being in his turn 
pleased and entertained by her brilliant conversation, which she 
put forth for him, as her instinct showed her that she was talking 
to a man of high ability. A perfect gentleman she saw him to be, 
and making out some mutual connections far up in the family tree 
of the Mackenzies, she decided that the May family were an acqui- 
sition, and very good companions for her niece at present, while not 
yet come out. 

So ended the visit, with this great triumph for Meta, who had a 
strong belief in Aunt Leonora’s power and infallibility, and yet had 
not consulted her about Bellairs, nor about the school question. 

She had missed one Sunday’s school on account of her aunt’s 
visit, but the resolution made beside Margaret’s sofa had not been 
forgotten. She spent her Saturday afternoon in a call on Mrs. 
Wilmot, ending with a walk through the village; she confessed her 
ignorance, apologized for her blunders, and put herself under the 
direction which once she had fancied too strict and harsh to be 
followed. 

And on Sunday, she was content to teach the stupid girls, and 
abstain from making much of the smooth-faced engaging set. She 
thought it very dull work, but she could feel that it was something 
not done to please herself ; and whereas her father had feared she 
would be dull when her cousins were gone, he found her more 
joyous than ever. 

There certainly was a peculiar happiness about Margaret Rivers; 
her vexations were but ripples, rendering the sunny course of her 
life more sparkling, and each exertion in the way of goodness was 
productive of so much present joy, that the steps of her ladder 
seemed, indeed, to be of diamonds. 

Her ladder — for she was, indeed, mounting upwards. She was 
very earnest in her Confirmation preparation, most anxious to do 
right and to contend with her failings ; but the struggle at present 
was easy ; and the hopes, joys, and incentives, shone out more and 
more upon her in this blithe stage of her life. 

She knew there was a dark side, but hope and love were more 
present to her than was fear. Happy those to whom such young 
days are granted 


234 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

‘ It is ilie generous spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought, 

"Whose high endeavors are an inward light, 

Making the path before him always bright.’ 

Wordsworth. 

The holidays had commenced about a week when Harry, now duty 
appointed to H. M. S. Alcestis, was to come home on leave, as he 
proudly expressed it. 

A glad troop of brothers and sisters, with the Doctor himself, 
walked up to the station to meet him, and who was happiest when, 
from the window was thrust out the rosy face, with the gold band ? 
Mary gave such a shriek and leap, that two passengers and one 
guard turned round to look at her, to the extreme discomfiture of 
Flora and Norman, evidenced by one by a grave ‘ Mary 1 Mary ! ’ 
by the other, by walking off to the extreme end of the platform, and 
trying to look as if he did not belong to them, in which he was 
imitated by his shadow, Tom. 

Sailor already, rather than school-boy, Harry cared not for 
spectators ; his bound from the carriage and the hug between him 
and Mary would have been worthy of the return from the voyage 
The next greeting was for his father, and the sisters had had their 
share by the time the two brothers thought fit to return from their 
calm walk on the platform. 

Grand was it to see that party return to the town — the naval 
cadet, with his arm linked in Mary’s, and Aubrey clinging to his 
hand, and the others walking behind, admiring him as he turned 
his bright face every moment with some glad question or answer, 

‘ How was Margaret ? ’ Oh, so much better ; she had been able to 
walk across the roonti, with Norman’s arm round her — they hoped 
she would soon use crutches — and she sat up more. ‘ And the 
baby ? ’ More charming than ever — four teeth — would soon walk — 
such a darling ! Then came ‘ my dirk, the ship, our berth.’ ‘ Papa, 
do ask Mr. Ernescliffe to come here. I know lie could get leave.’ 

‘ Mr. Ernescliffe ! You used to call him Alan ! ’ said Mary. 

4 Yes, but that is all over now. You forget what we do on 
board. Captain Gordon himself calls mo Mr. May ! ’ 

Some laughed, others were extremely impressed. 

‘Ha! There’s Ned Anderson coming,’ cried Mary. ‘Now! 
Let him see you, Harry.’ 

‘ What matters Ned Anderson to me ? ’ said Harry ; and, with 
an odd mixture of shame-facedness and cordiality, he marched full 
up to his old school-fellow, and shook hands with him, as if able, in 
the plenitude of his officership, to afford plenty of good-humored 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 235 

superiority. Tom had meantime subsided out cf all view. But 
poor Harry's exultation had a fall. 

‘ Well ! ’ graciously inquired ‘ Mr. May,’ and how is Harvey ? ’ 

‘ 0 very well. We are expecting him home to-morrow.’ 

‘ Where has he been ? ’ 

£ To Oxford, about the Randall.’ 

Harry gave a disturbed, wondering look round, on seeing Ed- 
ward’s air of malignant satisfaction. He saw nothing that reassured 
him, except the quietness of Norman’s own face, but even that 
altered as their eyes met. Before another word could be said, 
however, the Doctor’s hand was on Harry’s shoulder. 

‘ You must not keep him now, Ned,’ said he — 1 his sister has not 
seen him yet.’ 

And he moved his little procession onwards, still resting on 
Harry’s shoulder, while a silence had fallen on all, and even the 
young sailor ventured no question. Only Tom’s lips were quiver- 
ing, and Ethel had squeezed Norman’s hand. ‘ Poor Harry ! ’ he 
muttered, 1 this is worst of all ! I wish we had written it to him.’ 

1 So do I now, but we always trusted it would come right. Oh ! 
if I were but a boy to flog that Edward ! ’ 

1 Hush, Ethel, remember what we resolved.’ 

They were entering their own garden, where, beneath the shade 
of the tulip-tree, Margaret lay on her couch. Her arms were held 
out, and Harry threw himself upon her, but when he rose from her 
caress, Norman and Tom were gone. 

‘ What is this ? ’ he now first ventured to ask. 

‘ Come with me,’ said Dr. May, leading the way to his study, 
where he related the whole history of the suspicion that Norman 
had incurred. He was glad that he had done so in private, for 
Harry’s indignation and grief went beyond his expectations ; and 
when at last it appeared that Harvey Anderson was actually Randall 
scholar, after opening his eyes with the utmost incredulity, and 
causing it to be a second time repeated, he gave a gulp or two, turned 
very red, and ended by laying his head on the table, and fairly 
sobbing and crying aloud, in spile of dirk, uniform, and manhood. 

1 Harry ! why Harry, my boy ! We should have prepared you 
for this,’ said the Doctor, affectionately. 1 We have left off breaking 
our hearts about it. I don’t want any comfort now, for having 
gold instead of glitter; though at first I was as bad as you.’ 

1 0 if I had but been there ! ’ said Harry, combating unsuccess- 
fully with his tears. 

1 Ah ! so we all said, Norman and all. Your word would have 
cleared him — that is, if you had not been in the thick of the mis- 
chief. Ha ! July, should not you have been on the top of the wall ? ’ 

‘ I would have stood by him, at least. Would not I have given 
Axworthy and Anderson two such black eyes as they could not 


236 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


have shown in school for a week ? They had better look out * 
cried Harry, savagely. 

1 What ! An officer in Her Majesty’s service ! Eh, Mr. May ? 

1 Don’t, papa, don’t. Oh ! I thought it would have been sc 
happy, when I came home, to see Norman Handall-scholar. Oh I 
now I don’t care for the ship, nor anything.’ 

Again Harry’s face went down on the table. 

I Come, come, Harry,’ said Dr. May, pulling off the spectacles 
that had become very dewy, ‘ don’t let us make fools of ourselves, 
or they will think we are crying for the scholarship.’ 

I I don’t care for the scholarship, but to have J une turned down 
— and disgrace — ’ 

1 What I care for, Harry, is having June what he is, and that 
1 know better now.’ 

‘ He is ! he is — he is June himself, and no mistake ! ’ cried 
Harry, with vehemence. 

1 The prime of the year, is not it ? ’ said the Doctor, smiling, as 
he stroked down the blue sleeve, as if he thought that generous 
July did not fall far short of it. 

‘ That he is ! ’ exclaimed Harry. 1 1 have never met one fellow 
like him.’ 

1 It will be a chance if you ever do,’ said Dr. May. ‘ That is 
better than scholarships ! ’ 

1 It should have been both,’ said Harry. 

1 Norman thinks the disappointment has been very good for 
him,’ said the Doctor. 1 Perhaps it made him what he is 'sow. All 
success is no discipline, you know.’ 

. Harry looked as if he did not know. 

1 Perhaps you will understand better by-and-by, but this I can 
tell you, Harry, that the patient bearing of his vexation, has done 
more to renew Norman’s spirits, than all his prosperity. See if it 
has not. I believe it is harder to everyone of us, than to him. To 
Ethel, especially, it is a struggle to be in charity with the Ander- 
sons.’ 

1 In charity ! ’ repeated Harry. 1 Papa ! you don’t want us to 
like a horrid, sneaking, mean-spirited pair like those, that have 
used Norman in that shameful way ? ’ 

I No, certainly not ; I only want you to feel no more personal 
anger, than if it had been Cheviot, or some indifferent person, that 
had been injured.’ 

I I should have hated them all the same ! ’ cried Harry. 

‘ If it is all the same , and it is the treachery you hate, I ask no 
more,’ said the Doctor. 

‘ I can’t help it, papa, I can’t ! If I were to meet those fellows, 
do you think I could shake hands with them ? If I did not lick 
Ned all down Minster-street, he might think himself lucky.’ 

‘ Well, Harry, I won’t argue any more. I have no right to 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


237 


preacli forbearance. Your brother’s example is better worth than 
my precept. Shall we go back to Margaret, or have you anything 
to say to me ? ’ 

Harry made no positive answer, but pressed close to his father, 
who put his arm round him, while the curly-head was laid on his 
shoulder. Presently, he said, with a great sigh, ‘ There’s nothing 
like home.’ 

1 Was that what you wanted to say ? ’ asked Dr. May, smiling, 
as he held the boy more closely to him. 

1 No ; but it will be a long time before I come back. They 
think we shall have orders for the Pacific.’ 

‘ You will come home our real lion,’ said the Doctor. 1 How 
much you will have to tell ! ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Harry; ‘ but, oh ! it is very different from coming 
home every night, not having anyone to tell a thing to.’ 

1 Do you want to say anything now ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know. I told you in my letter about the half- 
sovereign.’ 

1 Aye, never mind that.’ 

1 And there was one night, I am afraid, I did not stand by a 
little fellow that they bullied about his prayers. Perhaps he would 
have gone on, if I had helped him ! ’ 

1 Does he sail with you ? ’ 

‘ No, he was at school. If I had told him that he and I would 
stand by each other — but he looked so foolish, and began to cry ! 
T am sorry now.’ 

1 Weak spirits have much to bear,’ said the Doctor, 1 and yofi 
stronger ones, who don’t mind being bullied, are meant, I suppose, 
to help them, as Norman has been doing by poor little Tommy.’ 

1 It was thinking of Norman — that made me sorry. I knew 
there was something else, but you see I forget, when I don’t see 
you and Margaret every day.’ 

1 You have One always near, my boy.’ 

‘ I know, but I cannot always recollect. And there is such a 
row at night on board, I cannot think or attend as I ought,’ mur- 
mured Harry. 

I Yes, your life, sleeping at home in quiet, has not prepared you 
or that trial,’ said the Doctor. ‘ But others have kept upright 
habits under the same, you know — and God helps those who are 
doing their best.’ 

Harry sighed. 

I I mean to do my best,’ he added ; £ and if it was not for feeling 
bad, I should like it. I do like it ’ — and his eye sparkled, and his 
smile beamed, though the tear was undried. 

1 1 know you do ! ’ said Dr. May, smiling, 1 and for feeling bad, 
my Harry, I fear you must do that by sea, or land, as long as you 
are in this world. God be thanked that you grieve over the feeliug 


238 % 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


But He is ready to aid, and knows the trial, and you will be brought 
nearer to Him, before you leave us.’ 

‘ Margaret wrote about the Confirmation. Am I old enough ? ’ 

I If you wish it, Harry, under these circumstances.’ 

I I suppose I do,’ said Harry, uneasily twirling a button. ‘ But 
then, if I’ve got to forgive the Andersons — ’ 

1 We won’t talk any more of that,’ said the Doctor — ‘here is 
poor Mary, reconnoitring, to know why I am keeping you from 
her.’ 

Then began the scampering up and down the house, round and 
round the garden, visiting every pet or haunt, or contrivance ; 
Mary and Harry at the head, Blanche and Tom in full career after 
them, and Aubrey stumping and scrambling at his utmost speed, far 
behind. 

Not a word passed between Norman and Harry on the school 
misadventure, but, after the outbreak of the latter, he treated it as 
a thing forgotten, and brought all his high spirits to enliven the 
family party. Bichard, too, returned later on the same day, and 
though not received with the same uproarious joy as Harry, the 
elder section of the family were as happy in their way as what 
Blanche called the middle-aged. The Daisy was brought down, 
and the eleven were again all in the same room, though there were 
suppressed sighs from some, who reflected how long it might be 
before they could again assemble. 

Tea went off happily in the garden, with much laughing and 
talking. ‘ Pity to leave such good company ! ’ said the Doctor, un- 
willingly rising at last — ‘ but I must go to the Union — I promised 
Ward to meet him there.’ 

‘ 0 let me walk with you ! ’ cried Harry. 

‘ And me ! ’ cried other voices, and the Doctor proposed that 
they should wait for him in the meads, and extend the walk after 
the visit. Bichard and Ethel both expressing their intention of 
adhering to Margaret — the latter observing how nice it would be 
to get rid of everybody, and have a talk. 

‘ What have we been doing all this time I ’ said Dr. May, 
laughing. 

‘ Chattering, not conversing,’ said Ethel, saucily. 

‘ Aye ! the Cocksmoor board is going to sit,’ said Dr. May. 

‘ What is a board ? ’ inquired Blanche, who had just come down 
prepared for her walk. 

‘ Bichard, Margaret, and Ethel, when they sit upon Cocksmoor, 
said Dr. May. 

‘ But Margaret never does sit on Cocksmoor, papa.’ 

1 Only allegorically, Blanche,’ said Norman. 

‘ But I don’t understand what is a board ? ’ pursued Blanche. 

‘ Mr. May in his ship,’ was Norman’s suggestion. 

Poor Blanche stood in perplexity. ‘ What is it really ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


239 


* Something wooden-lieaded,’ continued the provoking papa. 

1 A hoard is all wooden, not only its head,’ said Blanche. 

1 Exactly so, especially at Stoneborough ! ’ said the Doctor. 

‘ It is what papa is when he comes out of the council-room,’ added 
Ethel. 

1 Or what everyone is while the girls are rigging themselves,’ 
sighed Harry. ‘ Ha ! here’s Polly — now we only want Flora.’ 

‘ And my stethoscope ! Has anyone seen my stethoscope ? ’ ex- 
claimed the Doctor, beginning to rush frantically into the study, 
dining-room, and his own room ; but failing, quietly took up a book, 
and gave up the search, which was vigorously pursued by Richard, 
Flora, and Mary, until the missing article was detected, where Au- 
brey had left it in the nook on the stairs, after using it for a trum- 
pet and a telescope. 

‘ Ah ! now my goods will have a chance ! ’ said Dr. May, as he 
took it, and patted Richard’s shoulder. 1 1 have my best right- 
hand, and Margaret will be saved endless sufferings.’ 

1 Papa ! ’ 

I Aye ! poor dear ! don’t I see what she undergoes, when nobody 
will remember that useful proverb, u A place for everything, and 
everything in its place.” I believe one use of her brains is to make 
an inventory of all the things left about the drawing-room ; but, 
beyond it, it is past her power.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Flora, rather aggrieved ; ‘ I do the best I can, but 
when nobody ever puts anything into its place, what can I do, sin- 
gle-handed ? So no one ever goes anywhere without first turning 
the house up-side down, for their property ; and Aubrey, and now 
even baby, are always carrying whatever they can lay hands on into 
the nursery. I can’t bear it ; and the worst of it is, that — ’ 
she added, finishing her lamentation, after the others were out at 
the door, 1 Papa and Ethel have neither of them the least shame 
about it.’ 

* No, no, Flora, that is not fair ! ’ exclaimed Margaret — but 
Flora was gone. 

I I have shame,’ sighed Ethel, walking across the room, discon- 
solately, to put a book into a shelf. 

* And you dont leave things trainants as you used,’ said Mar- 
garet. 1 That is what I meant.’ 

« I wish I did not,’ said Ethel ; 1 1 was thinking whether I had 
better not make myself pay a forfeit. Suppose you keep a book for 
me, Margaret, and make a mark against me at everything I leave 
about, and if I pay a farthing for each, it will be so much away 
from Cocksmoor, so I must cure myself ! ’ 

1 And what shall become of the forfeits ? ’ asked Richard. 

1 Oh, they won’t be enough to be worth having, I hope,’ said 
Margaret. 

< Give them to the Ladies’ Committee,’ said Ethel, making a 


240 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


face. ‘ Oh, Ritchie ! they are worse than ever. We are so glad 
that Flora is going to join it, and see whether she can do any 
good.’ 

‘We?’ said Margaret, hesitating. 

1 Ah ! I know you aren’t, but papa said she might — and you 
know she has so much tact and management — ’ 

‘ As Norman says,’ observed Margaret, doubtfully. ‘ I cannot 
like the notion of Flora going and squabbling with Mrs. Ledwich 
and Louisa Anderson ! ’ 

1 What do you think, Ritchie ? ’ asked Ethel. 1 Is it not too 
bad that they should have it all their own way, and spoil the whole 
female population ? Why, the last thing they did was to leave off 
reading the Prayer-book prayers morning and evening,! And it is 
much expected that next they will attack all learning by heart.’ 

I It is too bad,’ said Richard, ‘ but Flora can hardly hinder 
them.’ 

‘ It will be one voice,’ said Ethel ; 1 but oh ! if I could only say 
half what I have in my mind, they must see the error. 1 Why, 
these, these — what they call formal — these the ties — links on to the 
Church — on to what is good — if they don’t learn them soundly — 
rammed down hard — you know what I mean — so that they can’t 
remember the first — remember when they did not know them — 
they will never get to learn — know — understand when they can 
understand ! ’ 

‘ My dear Ethel, don’t frown so horribly, or it will spoil your 
eloquence,’ said Margaret. 

I I don’t understand either,’ said Richard, gravely. ‘ Not un- 
derstand when they can understand ? What do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Why, Ritchie, don’t you see ? If they don’t learn them — 
hard, firm, by rote when they can’t — they won’t understand when 
they can.’ 

1 If they don’t learn when they can’t, they won’t understand 
when they can ? ’ — puzzled Richard — -making Margaret laugh— but 
Ethel was too much in earnest for amusement. 

1 If they don’t learn them by rote when they have strong memo- 
ries. Yes, that’s it ! ’ she continued, 1 they will not know them 
well enough to understand them when they are old enough ! ’ 

1 Who won’t learn or understand what ? ’ said Richard. 

1 Oh ! Ritchie, Ritchie ! Why the children — the Psalms — the 
Gospels — the things. They ought to know them, love them, grow 
up to them, before they know the meaning, or they won’t eare. 
Memory, association, affection, all those come when one is younger 
than comprehension ! ’ 

‘ Younger than one’s own comprehension ? ’ 

‘ Richard, you are grown more tiresome than ever Are you 
laughing at me ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


241 


* Indeed, I beg your pardon — I did not mean it,’ said Richard. 

I am very sorry to be so stupid. 7 

‘ My dear Ritchie, it was only my blundering — never mind. 7 

‘ But what did you mean ? I want to know, indeed, Ethel. 7 

‘ I mean that memory and association come before comprehen- 
sion, so that one ought to know all good things — fa — with fami- 
liarity before one can understand, because understanding does not 
make one love. Oh ! one does that before, and, when the first little 
gleam, little bit of a sparklet of the meaning does come, then it is 
so valuable and so delightful. 7 

‘ I never heard of a little bit of a sparklet before, 7 said Richard, 
1 but I think I do see what Ethel means ; and it is like what I 
heard and liked in a University sermon some Sundays ago, saying 
that these lessons and holy words were to be impressed on us here 
from infancy on earth, that we might be always unravelling their 
meaning, and learn it fully at last — where we hope to be. 7 

* The very same thought ! 7 exclaimed Margaret delighted ; 
‘ but, 7 after a pause, 1 1 am afraid the Ladies 7 Committee might not 
enter into it in plain English, far less in Ethel’s language. 7 

1 Now, Margaret ! You know I never meant myself. I never 
can get the right words for what I mean. 7 

1 And you leave about your faux commencements , as M. 
Ballompr6 would call them, for us to stumble over,’ said Margaret. 

1 But Flora would manage ! ’ said Ethel. ‘ She has power over 
people, and can influence them. O Ritchie, don’t persuade papa 
out of letting her go. 7 

I Does Mr. Wilmot wish it ? ’ asked Richard. 

I I have not heard him say, but he was very much vexed about 
the prayers, 7 said Ethel. 

‘ Will he stay here for the holidays? ’ 

1 No, his father has not been well, and he is gone to take his 
duty. He walked with us to Cocksmoor before he went, and we 
did so wish for you. N 

1 How have you been getting on ? ’ 

1 Pretty well, on the whole,’ said Ethel, ‘ but, oh dear ! oh dear, 
Richard, the M’Carthys are gone ! ’ 

1 Gone, where ? 7 

1 Oh, to Wales. I knew nothing of it till they were off. Una 
and Fergus were missing, and Jane Taylor told me they were all 
gone. Oh, it is so horrid! Una had really come to be so good and 
so much in earnest. She behaved so well at school and Church, 
that even Mrs. Ledwich liked her, and she used to read her Testa- 
ment half the day, and bring her Sunday-school lessons to ask me 
about ! Oh ! I was so fond of her, and it really seemed to have 
done some good with her. And now it is all lost ! Oh ! I wish I 
knew what would become of my poor child I 7 

£ The only hope is that it may not be all lost, 7 said Margaret. 

11 


242 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ With such a woman for a mother ! ’ said Ethel ; ‘ and going ta 
some heathenish place again ! If I could only have seen her first, 
and begged her to go to Church and say her prayers. If I only 
knew where she is gone! but I don’t. I did think Una would 
have come to wish me good-bye ! ’ 

‘ I am very sorry to lose her,’ said Bickard. 

1 Mr. Wilmot says it is bread cast on the waters,’ said Margaret 
— ‘ he was very kind in consoling Ethel, who came home quite in 
despair.’ 

1 Yes, he said it was one of the trials,’ said Ethel, ‘ and that it 
might be better for Una as well as for me. And I am trying to 
care for the rest still, but I cannot yet as I did for her. There are 
none of the eyes that look as if they were eating up one’s words 
before they come, and that smile of comprehension ! Oh ! they all 
are such stupid little dolts, and so indifferent ! ’ 

‘Why, Ethel!’ 

‘ Fancy last Friday — Mary and I found only eight there — ’ 

‘ Do you remember what a broiling day Friday was ? ’ inter- 
rupted Margaret. ‘ Miss Winter and Norman both told me I ought 
not to let them go, and I began to think so when they came home. 
Mary was the colour of a peony ! ’ 

‘ Oh ! ’ it would not have signified if the children had been good 
for anything, but all their mothers were out at work, and, of those 
that did come, hardly one had learnt their lessons — Willy Blake 
had lost his spelling-card — Anne Harris kicked Susan Pope, and 
would not say she was sorry. Mary Hale would not know M from 
N, do all our Mary would; and Jane Taylor, after all the pains 1 
have taken with her, when I asked how the Israelites crossed the 
Bed Sea, seemed never to have heard of them.’ 

Margaret could have said that Ethel had come in positively 
crying with vexation, but with no diminution of the spirit of perse- 
verance. ‘ I am so glad you are come, Bichard ! ’ she continued. 

‘ You will put a little new life into them. They all looked so 
pleased, when we told them Mr. Bichard was coming.’ 

‘ I hope w T e shall get on,’ said Bichard. 

‘ I want you to judge whether the Popes are civilized enough to 
be dressed for Sunday-school. Oh ! and the money. Here is the 
account-book — ’ 

‘ How neatly you have kept it, Ethel.’ 

‘ Ah ! it was for you, you know. Beceipts — see, ar’n’t you sur- 
prised ? ’ 

‘ Four pounds, eighteen and eightpence ? That is a great deal ! ’ 

‘ The three guineas were Mr. Bivers’s fees, you know ; then, 
Margaret gave us half-a-sovereign, and Mary a shilling, and there 
was one that we picked up, tumbling about the house, and papa 
said we might have, and the two-pence were little Blanche’s sav 
ings. Oh, Bitchie ! ’ as a bright coin appeared on the book. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


243 


1 That is all I could save this term,’ he said. 

1 Oh ! it is famous. Now, I do think I may put another whole 
sovereign away into the purse for the Church. See, here is what 
we have paid. Shoes — those did bring our money very low, 
and then I bought a piece of print which cost sixteen shillings, but 
it will make plenty of frocks. So, you see, the balance is actually 
two pounds nine ! That is something. The nine shillings will go 
on till we get another fee ; for I have two frocks ready made for 
the Popes, so the two pounds are a real nest-egg towards the 
Church.’ 

1 The Church ! ’ repeated Richard, half smiling. 

4 1 looked in the paper the other day, and saw that a chapel had 
been built for nine hundred pounds,’ said Ethel. 

‘ And you have two ! ’ 

‘ Two in eight months, Ritchie, and more will come as we get 
older. I have a scheme in my head, but I won’t tell you now.’ 

‘ Nine hundred ! Ancl a Church has to be endowed as well as 
built, you know, Ethel.’ 

‘ Oh ! never mind that now. If we can begin and build, some 
good person will come and help. I’ll run and fetch it, Ritchie. I 
drew out a sketch of what I want it to be.’ 

‘ What a girl that is ! ’ said Richard, as Ethel dashed away. 

‘ Is not she ? ’ said Margaret. ‘ And she means all so heartily. 
Do you know she has spent nothing on her own pleasures, not a 
book, not a thing has she bought this year, except a present for 
Blanche’s birthday, and some silk to net a purse for Harry.’ 

‘ I cannot help being sometimes persuaded that she will succeed,’ 
said Richard. 

1 Faith, energy, self-denial, perseverance, they go a great way,’ 
said Margaret. ‘And yet when we look at poor dear Ethel, and 
her queer ungainly ways, and think of her building a Church ! ’ 

Neither Richard nor Margaret could help laughing, but they 
checked it at once, and the former said, ‘ That brave spirit is a 
reproof to us all.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Margaret; ‘and so is the resolution to mend her 
little faults.’ 

Ethel came back, having, of course, mislaid her sketch, and, 
much vexed, wished to know if it ought to cause her first forfeit, 
but Margaret thought these should not begin till the date of the 
agreement, and the three resumed the Cocksmoor discussion. 

It lasted till the return of the walking party, so late, that they 
had been star-gazing, and came in, in full dispute as to which was 
Cygnus and which Aquila, while Blanche was talking very 
grandly of Taurus Poniatouski, and Harry begging to be told 
which constellations he should still see in the southern hemisphere. 
Dr. May was the first to rectify the globe for the southern latitudes, 
and fingers were affectionately laid on Orion’s studded belt, as 


244 : 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


though he were a friend who would accompany the sailor-hoy. 
Voices grew loud and eager in enumerating the stars common to 
both ; and so came bed-time, and the globe stood on the table in 
clanger of being forgotten. Ethel diligently lifted it up ; and while 
Norman exclaimed at her tidiness, Margaret told how a new leaf 
was to be turned, and of her voluntary forfeits. 

1 A very good plan,’ cried the Doctor. ‘ We can’t do bettei 
than follow her example.’ 

1 What, you, papa ? Oh ! what fun ! ’ exclaimed Harry. 

1 So you think I shall be ruined, Mr. Monkey. How do you 
know I shall not be the most orderly of all ? A penny for every- 
thing left about, confiscated for the benefit of Cocksmoor, eh ? ’ 

‘ And twopence for pocket-handkerchiefs, if you please,’ said 
Norman, with a gesture of disgust. 

1 Very well. From Blanche, upwards. Margaret shall have a 
book, and set down marks against us — hold an audit every Satur- 
day night. What say you, Blanche ? ’ 

( 0 I hope Flora will leave something about ! ’ cried Blanche, 
dancing with glee. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

‘ O no, we never mention her, 

We never breathe her name.’ — S ong. 

A great deal of merriment had come home with Harry, who never 
was grave for ten minutes without a strong reaction, and distracted 
the house with his noise and his antics, in proportion, as it some- 
times seemed, to the spaces of serious thought and reading spent in 
the study, where Dr. May did his best to supply Mr. Ramsden’s in- 
sufficient attention to his Confirmation candidates, by giving an 
hour every day to Norman, Ethel, and Harry. He could not lec- 
ture, but he read with them, and his own earnestness was very im- 
pressive. 

The two eldest felt deeply, but Harry often kept it in doubt, 
whether he were not as yet too young and wild for permanent im- 
pressions, so rapid were his transitions, and so overpowering his 
high spirits. Not that these were objected to ; but there was a 
feeling that there might as well be moderation in all things, and 
that it would have been satisfactory if, under present circumstances, 
he had been somewhat more subdued and diligent. 

1 There are your decimals not done yet, Harry.’ 

For Harry being somewhat deficient in arithmetic, had been 
recommended to work in that line during his visit at home — an 
operation usually deferred, as at present, to the evening. 

‘ I am going to do my sums now, Flora,’ said Harry, somewhat 
annoyed. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


245 


He really fetched liis arithmetic, and his voice was soon heard 
asking how he was ever to put an end to a sum that would turn tc 
nothing but everlasting threes. 

‘What have you been doing, young ladies?’ asked Dr. May. 
4 Did you call on Miss Walkingham ? ’ 

1 Flora and Blanche did,’ said Ethel; ‘I thought you did not 
want me to go, and I had not time. Besides, a London grand 
young lady — Oh ! ’ and Ethel shook her head in disgust. 

1 That is not the way you treat Meta Bivers.’ 

I Oh ! Meta is different. She has never been out ! ’ 

I I should have been glad for you to have seen Miss Walking- 
ham,’ said her father. ‘ Pretty manners are improving ; besides, old 
Lady Walkingham begged me to send my daughters.’ 

‘ I should not have seen her,’ said Ethel, 1 for she was not well 
enough to let us in.’ 

‘ Was it not pushing ? ’ said Flora. ‘ There were the Andersons 
leaving their card ? ’ 

1 Those Andersons ! ’ exclaimed the Doctor ; 1 1 am sick of the 
very sound of the name. As sure as my name is Dick May, I’ll 
include it in Margaret’s book of fines.’ 

Flora looked dignified. 

‘ They are always harping on that little trumpery girl’s non- 
sense,’ said Harry — ‘ Aught, aught, eight, that is eight thousandths, 
eh, Norman ! If it was about those two fellows, the boys — ’ 

‘ You would harp only on what affects you ? ’ said the Doctor. 

• No, I don’t : men never do. That is one hundred and twenty- 
fifth.’ 

‘ One man does it to an hundred and twenty-five women ? ’ said 
Dr. May. 

? It is rather a female defect, indeed,’ said Margaret. 

1 Defect ! ’ said Flora. 

‘ Yes,’ said Dr. May, 1 since it is not only irksome to the hear- 
ers, but leads to the breaking of the ninth commandment.’ 

Many voices declared, in forms of varying severity, that it was 
impossible to speak worse of the Andersons than they deserved. 

1 Andersons again ! ’ cried Dr. May, 1 One, two, three, four, five, 
six forfeits ! ’ 

I Papa himself, for he said the name,” saucily put in Blanche. 

I I think I should like the rule to be made in earnest,’ said EtheL 

1 What ! in order to catch Flora’s pence for Cocksmoor ? ’ sug- 
gested Harry. 

1 No, but because it is malice. I mean, that is, if there is dis- 
like, or a grudge in our hearts at them — talking for ever of nasty 
little miserable irritations makes it worse.’ 

1 Then why do you do it ? ’ asked Flora. ‘ I heard you only on 
Sunday declaiming about Fanny Anderson.’ 

1 Ha ! ’ cried out all at once. ‘ There goes Flora ! ’ 


246 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


She looked intensely serious and innocent. 

1 1 know,’ said Ethel. ‘ It is the very reason I want the rule tc 
be made, just to stop us, for I am sure we must often say mor6 
than is right.’ 

* Especially when we come to the pass of declaring that the ninth 
commandment cannot be broken with regard to them,’ observed the 
Doctor. 

1 Most likely they are saying much the same of us,’ said Richard. 

‘ Or worse,’ rejoined Dr. May. ‘ The injured never hates as 
much as the injurer.’ 

‘ Now papa has said the severest things of all ! ” whispered Ethel. 

1 Proving the inexpedience of personalities,’ said Dr. May, ‘ and 
in good time enter the evening post. — Why ! how now, Mr. May, 
are you gone mad ? ’ 

‘ Hallo ! why ho, ha ! hurrah ! ’ and up went Harry’s . book of 
decimals to the ceiling, coming down upon a candle, which would 
have been overturned on Ethel’s work, if it had not been dexter- 
ously caught by Richard. 

‘ Harry ! ’ indignantly cried Ethel and Flora, ‘ see what you 
have done ! ’ and the Doctor’s voice called to order, but Harry 
could not heed. ‘ Hear ! hear ! he has a fortune, an estate.’ 

‘ Who ? Tell us — don’t be so absurd. Who ? ’ 

‘ Why, Mr. Ernescliffe. Here is a letter from Hector. Only 
listen : 

‘ “ Did you know we had an old far-away English cousin, one 
Mr. Ilalliday ? I hardly did, though Alan was named after him, 
and he belonged to my mother. He was a cross old fellow, and 
took no notice of us, but within the last year or two, his nephew, 
or son, or something, died, and now he is just dead, and the lawyer 
wrote to tell Alan he is heir-at-law. Mr. Ernescliffe, of Maple- 
wood ! Does it not sound well ? It is a beautiful great place in 
Shropshire, and Alan and I mean to run off to see it as soon as he 
can have any time on shore.” ’ 

Ethel could not help looking at Margaret, but was ashamed of 
her impertinence, and coloured violently, whereas her sister did not 
colour at all, and Norman, looking down, wondered whether Alan 
would make the voyage. 

‘ Oh ! of course he will ; he must,’ said Harry. 1 He would 
never give up now.’ 

Norman further wondered whether Hector would remain on the 
Stoneborough foundation, and Mary hoped they should not lose 
him ; but there was no great readiness to talk over the event, and 
there soon was a silence broken by Flora, saying, ‘He is no such 
nobody, as Louisa Anderson said when we — ’ 

Another shout, which caused Flora to take refuge in playing 
waltzes for the rest of the evening. Moreover, to the extreme 
satisfaction of Mary, she left her crochet-needle on the floor at 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


247 

night. While a tumultuous party were pursuing her with it to 
claim the penny, and Richard was conveying Margaret up-stairs, 
Ethel found an opportunity of asking her father if he were not very 
glad of Mr. Ernescliffe’s good fortune. 

‘ Yes, very. He is a good fellow, and will make a good use of it.’ 

1 And now, papa, does it not make — you won’t say now you are 
sorry he came here.’ 

She had no answer but a sigh, and a look that made her blush 
for having ventured so far. She was so much persuaded that great 
events must ensue, that all the next day, she listened to every ring 
of the bell, and when one at last was followed by a light, though, to 
her ears, manly sounding tread, she looked up flushing with expec- 
tation. 

Behold, she was disappointed. 1 Miss Walkingham ’ was an- 
nounced, and she rose surprised, for the lady in question had only 
come to Stoneborough for a couple of days with an infirm mother, 
who, having known Dr. May in old times, had made it her especial 
request that he would let her see his daughters. She was to pro- 
ceed on her journey to-day, and the return of the visit had been by 
no means expected. 

Flora went forward to receive her, wondering to see her so 
young looking, and so unformed. She held out her hand, with a red 
wrist, and, as far as could be seen under her veil, coloured when 
presented to the recumbent Margaret. How she got into her chair, 
they hardly knew, for Flora was at that moment extremely annoyed 
by hearing an ill-bred peal of Mary’s laughter in the garden, close 
to the window ; but she thought it best to appear unconscious, since 
she had no power to stop it. 

Margaret thought the stranger embarrassed, and kindly inquired 
for Lady Walkingham. 

1 Much the same, thank you,’ mumbled a voice down in the 
throat. 

A silence, until Margaret tried another question, equally briefly 
answered ; and, after a short interval, the young lady contrived to 
make her exit, with the same amount of gaucherie as had marked 
her entrance. 

Expressions . of surprise at once began, and were so loud, that 
when Harry entered the room, his inquiry was, £ What’s the row ? ’ 

‘ Miss Walkingham,’ said Ethel, ‘ but you won’t understand 
She seemed half wild! Worse than me ! ’ 

1 How did you like the pretty improving manners ? ’ asked Harry. 

‘ Manners ! she had none,’ said Flora. 1 She, highly connected ! 
osed to the best society ! ’ 

1 How do you know what the best society do ? ’ asked Harry. 

1 The poor thing seemed very shy,’ said Margaret. 

I don’t know about shyness,’ said Flora. 1 She was stifling a 


248 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


laugh all the time, like a rude school-boy. And I thought papa 
said she was pretty ! ’ 

1 Aye ? Did you think her so ? 5 asked Harry. 

1 A great broad red face — and so awkward ! ’ cried Flora, indig- 
nantly. 

‘ If one could have seen her face, I think she might have been 
nice-looking,’ said Margaret. 1 She had pretty golden curls, and 
merry blue eyes, rather like Harry’s.’ 

‘ Umph ! ’ said Flora — ‘ beauty and manners seemed to me much 
on a par ! This is one of papa’s swans, indeed ! ’ 

‘ I can’t believe it was Miss Walkingham at all ! ’ said Ethel. 

‘ It must have been some boy in disguise.’ 

‘ Dear me ! ’ cried Margaret, starting with the painful timidity 
of helplessness. ‘ Do look whether anything is gone. Where’s the 
silver inkstand ? ’ 

1 You don’t think she could put that into her pocket,’ said Ethel, 
laughing as she held it up. 

‘ I don’t know. Do, Harry, see if the umbrellas are safe in the 
hall. I wish you would, for now I come to remember, the Walk- 
inghams went at nine this morning. Miss Winter said that she 
saw the old lady helped into the carriage, as she passed.’ Margaret’s 
eyes looked quite large and terrified. ‘ She must have been a spy 
— the whole gang will come at night ! I wish Richard was here. 
Harry, it really is no laughing matter. You had better give notice 
to the police.’ 

The more Margaret was alarmed, the more Harry laughed. 

‘ Never mind, Margaret, I’ll take care of you ! Here’s my dirk. 
I’ll stick all the robbers.’ 

1 Harry ! Harry ! Oh ! don’t ! ’ cried Margaret, raising herself 
up in an agony of nervous terror. ‘ Oh ! where is papa ? Will no- 
body ring the bell, and send G-eorge for the police ? ’ 

‘ Police, police ! Thieves ! Murder ! Robbers ! Fire ! All hands 
ahoy ! ’ shouted Harry, his hands making a trumpet over his mouth. 

‘ Harry ! how can you ? ’ said Ethel, hastily ; 1 don’t you see 
that Margaret is terribly frightened. Can’t you say at once that 
it was you ? ’ 

‘ You ! ’ and Margaret sank back, as there was a general outcry 
of laughter and wonder. 

I Did you know it, Ethel ? ’ asked Flora, severely. 

I I only guessed it this moment*’ said Ethel. ‘ How well you 
did it, Harry ! ’ 

‘ Well ! ’ said Flora, 1 1 did think her dress very like Margaret’s 
shot silk. I hope you did not do that any harm.’ 

‘ But how did you manage ? ’ said Ethel. ‘ Where did youi 
bonnet come from ? ’ 

‘ It was a new one of Adam’s wife. Mary got it for me. Come 
in, Polly, they have found it out. Did you not hear her splitting 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


240 


with laughing outside the window? I would not let her come in 
tor fear she should spoil all.’ 

‘ And I was just going to give her such a scolding for giggling 
in the garden,’ said Flora, ‘ and to say we had been as bad as Miss 
Walkingham. You should not have been so awkward, Harry; you 
nearly betrayed yourself.’ 

‘ He had nobody to teach him but Mary,’ said Ethel. 

‘ All ! you should have seen me at my ease in Minster Street. 
No one suspected me there.’ 

‘ In Minster Street. Oh ! Harry ! you don’t really mean it.’ 

1 1 do. That was what I did it for. I was resolved to knou 
what the nameless ones said of the Miss Mays.’ 

Hasty and eager inquiries broke out from Flora and Ethel. 

1 Oh, Dr. May was very clever, certainly, very clever. Had I 
seen the daughters ? I said I was going to call there, and they 
said — ’ 

‘ What, oh, what, Harry ? ’ 

‘ They said Flora was thought pretty, but — and as :o Ethel, 
uow, how do you think you came off, Unready ? ’ 

1 Tell me. They could not say the same of me, at any rate.’ 

‘ Quite the reverse ! They called Ethel very odd, poor girl.’ 

‘ I don’t mind,’ said Ethel. 1 They may say what they please 
of me ; besides that, I believe it is all Harry’s own invention.’ 

‘ Nay, that is a libel on my invention ! ’ exclaimed Harry. 1 If 
I had drawn on that, could I not have told you something much 
droller ? ’ 

‘ And was that really all ? ’ said Flora. 

1 They said — let me see — that all our noses were too long, and, 
that as to Flora’s being a beauty ! when their brothers called her— 
so droll of them — but Harvey called her a stuck-up duchess. In 
fact, it was the fashion to make a great deal of those Mays.’ 

‘ I hope they said something of the sailor brother,’ said Ethel. 

‘ No ; I found if I stayed to hear much more, I should be knock- 
ing Ned down, so I thought it time to take leave before he suspected.’ 

All this had passed very quickly, with much laughter, and nu- 
merous interjections of amusement, and reprobation, or delight. So 
excited were the young people, that they did not perceive a step on 
the gravel, till Dr. May entered by the window, and stood among 
them. His first exclamation was of consternation. ‘ Margaret ! 
my dear child, what is the matter ? ’ 

Only then did her brother and sisters perceive that Margaret 
was lying back on her cushions, very pale, and panting for breath. 
She tried to smile and say, ‘ it was nothing,’ and ‘ she was silly,’ 
but the words were faint, from the palpitation of her heart. 

* It was Harry’s trick,’ said Flora, indignantly, as she flew for 
the scent-bottle, while her father bent over Margaret. * Harry 
dressed himself up, and she was frightened.’ 


250 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


0 no — no — he did not mean it,’ gasped Margaret — ‘ don’t.’ 

‘ Harry ! I did not think you could be so cowardly and unfeeling ! 
and Dr May’s look was even more reproachful than his words. 

Harry was dismayed at his sister’s condition, but the injustice 
of the wholesale reproach chased away contrition. ‘ I did nothing 
to frighten anyone,’ he said, moodily. 

‘ Now, Harry, you know how you kept on,’ said Flora, ‘ and 
when you saw she was frightened — ’ 

‘ 1 can have no more of this,’ said Dr. May, seeing that the dis- 
cussion was injuring Margaret more and more. ‘ Go away to my 
study, sir, and wait till I come to you ! All of you out of the room 
— Flora, fetch the sal volatile.’ 

‘ Let me tell you,’ whispered Margaret. ‘ Don’t be angry with 
Harry. It was — ’ 

‘ Not now, not now, my dear. Lie quite still.’ 

She obeyed, took the sal volatile, and shut her eyes, while he 
sat leaning anxiously over, watching her. Presently, she opened 
them, and, looking up, said rather faintly, and trying to smile, ‘ 1 
don’t think I can be better till you have heard the rights of it. 
He did not mean it.’ 

- Boys never do mean it,’ was the Doctor’s answer. ‘ 1 hoped 
better things of Harry.’ 

‘ He had no intention,’ began Margaret, but she still was unfit 
to talk, and her father silenced her, by promising to go and hear 
the boy’s own account. 

In the hall, he was instantly beset by Ethel and Mary, the 
former exclaiming, ‘ Papa! you are quite mistaken. It was veiy 
foolish of Margaret to be so frightened ! He did nothing at all to 
frighten anyone.’ 

Ethel’s mode of pleading was unfortunate; the * very foolish of 
Margaret ’ were the very words to displease. 

‘Do- not interfere!’ said her father, sternly. ‘You only en- 
courage him in his wanton mischief, and no one takes any heed how 
he torments my poor Margaret.’ 

‘ Papa ! ’ cried Harry, passionately bursting open the study door, 
‘ tormenting Margaret was the last thing I would do.’ 

‘ That is not the way to speak, Harry. What have you been 
doing ? ’ 

With rapid, agitated utterance, Harry made his confession. At 
another time the Doctor would have treated the matter as a joke 
carried too far, but which, while it called for censure, was very 
amusing ; but now the explanation that the disguise had been as- 
sumed to impose on the Andersons, only added to his displeasure. 

‘ You seem to think you have a license to play off any imper- 
tinent freaks you please, without consideration for anyone,’ he said; 
‘ but I tell you it is not so. As long as you are under my roof, you 
shall feel my authority, and you shall spend the rest of the day iD 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


251 


your room. I hope quietness there will bring you to a better mind, 
but I am disappointed in you. A boy who can choose such a time, 
and such subjects, for insolent, unfeeling, practical jokes, cannot be 
in a fit state for Confirmation.’ 

‘ Oh ! papa ! papa ! ’ cried the two girls, in tones of entreaty — 
while Harry, with a burning face and hasty step, dashed up-stairs 
without a word. 

1 You have been as bad ! ’ said Hr. May. ‘ I say nothing to you, 
Mary, you knew no better ; but, to see you, Ethel, first encouraging 
him in his impertinence, and terrifying Margaret so, that I dare say 
she may be a week getting over it, and now defending him, and 
calling her silly, is unbearable. I cannot trust one of you ! ’ 

‘ Only listen, papa ! ’ 

‘ 1 will have no altercation ; I must go back to Margaret, since 
no one else has the slightest consideration for her.’ 

An hour had passed away, when Richard knocked at Ethel’s 
door to tell her that tea was ready. 

‘ I have a great mind not to go down,’ said Ethel, as he looked 
in, and saw her seated with a book. 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ 

‘ 1 cannot bear to go down while poor Harry is so unjustly used.’ 

‘Hush, Ethel!’ 

‘ I cannot hush ! J ust because Margaret fancies robbers and 
murderers, and all sorts of nonsense, as she always did, is poor 
Harry to be accused of wantonly terrifying her, and shut up, and 
cut off from Confirmation ? and just when he is going away, too ! 
It is unkind, and unjust, and — ’ 

‘ Ethel, you will be sorry — ’ 

‘ Papa will be sorry,’ continued Ethel, disregarding the caution. 
1 It is very unfair, and I will say so. It was all nonsense of Mar- 
garet’s, but he will always make everything give way to her ! And 
poor Harry, just going to sea. No, Ritchie, I cannot come down ; 
I cannot behave as usual.’ 

‘ You will grieve Margaret much more,’ said Richard. 

‘ I can’t help that — she should not have made such a fuss.’ 

Richard was somewhat in difficulties how to answer, but at that 
moment Harry’s door, which was next, was slightly opened — and 
his voice said, ‘ Go down, Ethel. The Captain may punish anyone 
he pleases, and it is mutiny in the rest of the crew to take his 
part.’ 

‘ Harry is in the right,’ said Richard. ‘ It is our duty not to 
question our father’s judgments. It would be wrong of you to stay 
up.’ 

‘ Wrong ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Of course. It would be against the articles of war,’ said 
Harry, opening his door another inch. ‘ But Ritchie, I say, do tell 
me whether it has hurt Margaret.’ 


252 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘She is better now,’ said Richard, ‘but she has a head-ache 
chiefly, I believe, from distress at having brought this on you. Sh% 
is very sorry for her fright.’ 

‘ I had not the least intention of frightening the most fearsome 
little tender mouse on earth,’ said Harry. 

‘ No indeed,’ said Ethel. 

‘ And at another time it would not have signified,’ said Richard ; 

‘ but, you know, Margaret always was timid, and now, the not being 
able to move, and the being out of health, has made her nerves 
weak, so that she cannot help it.’ 

‘ The fault was in our never heeding her when we were so eager 
to hear Harry’s story,’ said Ethel. ‘ That was what made the 
palpitation so bad. But, now papa knows all, does he not under- 
stand about Harry ? ’ 

‘ He was obliged to go out as soon as Margaret was better,’ said 
Richard, ‘ and was scarcely come in when I came up.’ 

‘ Go down, Ethel,’ repeated Harry. ‘ Never mind me. Norman 
told me that sort of joke never answered, and I might have minded 
him.’ 

The voice was very much troubled, and it brought back that 
burning sensation of indignant tears to Ethel’s eyes. 

‘ 0 Harry ! you did not deserve to be so punished for it.’ 

‘ That is what you are not to say,’ returned Harry. ‘ I ought 
not to have played the trick, and — and just now too — but I always 
forget things — ’ 

The door shut, and they fancied they heard sobs. Ethel groaned, 
but made no opposition to following her brother down to tea. Mar- 
garet lay, wan and exhausted, on the sofa — the Doctor looked very 
melancholy and rather stern, and the others were silent. Ethel had 
began to hope for the warm re-action she had so often known after a 
hasty fit, but it did not readily come ; Harry was boy instead of 
girl — the fault and its consequence had been more serious — and the 
anxiety for the future was greater. Besides, he had not fully heard 
the story; Harry, in his incoherent narration, had not excused 
himself, and Margaret’s panic had appeared more as if inspired by 
him, than, as it was, in fact, the work of her fancy. 

Thus the evening passed gloomily away, and it was not till the 
others had said good night, that Dr. May began to talk over the 
affair with his eldest son, who then was able to lay before him the 
facts of the case, as gathered from his sisters. He listened with a 
manner as though it were a reproof, and then said, sadly, ‘ I am 
afraid I was in a passion.’ 

‘ It was very wrong in Harry,’ said Richard, ‘ and particularly 
unlucky it should happen with the Andersons.’ 

‘Very thoughtless,’ said the Doctor, ‘no more, even as regarded 
Margaret ; but thoughtlessness should not have been treated as a 
crime.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


253 


‘ I wish we could see him otherwise,’ said Richard. 

‘ He wants — ’ and there Dr. May stopped short, and, taking 
up his candle, slowly mounted the stairs, and looked into Harry’s 
room. The boy was in bed, but started up on hearing his father’s 
step, and exclaimed, ‘ Papa, I am very sorry ! Is Margaret better ? 

‘ Yes, she is; and I understand now, Harry, that her alarm was 
an accident. I beg your pardon for thinking for a moment that it 
was otherwise — ’ 

‘No,’ interrupted Harry, ‘ of course I could never mean to 
frighten her ; but I did not leave off the moment I saw she was 
afraid, because it was so very ridiculous, and I did not guess it 
would hurt her.’ 

‘ I see, my honest boy. I do not blame you, for you did not 
know how much harm a little terror does to a person in her helpless 
state. But, indeed, Harry, though you did not deserve such anger 
as mine was, it is a sericms thing that you should be so much set on 
fun and frolic as to forget all considerations, especially at such a 
time as this. It takes away from much of my comfort in sending 
you into the world ; and for higher things — how can I believe you 
really impressed and reverent, if the next minute — ’ 

‘I’m not fit ! I’m not fit ! ’ sobbed Harry, hiding his face. 

‘ Indeed, I hardly know whether it is not so,’ said the Doctor. 
‘ You are under the usual age, and, though I know you wish to be 
a good boy, yet I don’t feel sure that these wild spirits do not carry 
away everything serious, and whether it is right to bring one so 
thoughtless to — ’ 

‘ No, no,’ and Harry cried bitterly, and his father was deeply 
grieved, but no more could then be said, and they parted for the 
night — Dr. May saying, as he went away, ‘ You understand, that 
it is not as a punishment for your trick, if I do not take you to Mr. 
Ramsden for a ticket, but that I cannot be certain whether it is 
right to bring you t<j.' such solemn privileges while you do not seem 
to me to retain steadily any grave or deep feelings. Perhaps your 
mother would have better helped you.’ 

And Dr. May went away, to mourn over what he viewed as far 
greater sins than those of his son. 

Anger had, indeed, given place to sorrow, and all were, grave 
the next morning, as if each had something to be forgiven. 

Margaret, especially, felt guilty of the fears which, perhaps, had 
not been sufficiently combated in her days of health, and now were 
beyond control, and had occasioned so much pain. Ethel grieved 
over the words she had yesterday spoken in haste of her father and 
sister ; Mary knew herself to have been an accomplice in the joke, 
and Norman blamed himself for not having taken the trouble to 

f jerceive that Harry had not been talking rhodomontade, when he 
lad communicated ‘ his capital scheme ’ the previous morning. 

The decision as to the Confirmation was a great grief to all. 


254 : 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Flora consoled herself by observing that, as he was so young, ns 
one need know it, nor miss him; and Ethel, with a trembling, almost 
sobbing voice, enumerated all Harry’s excellencies, his perfect truth, 
his kindness, his generosity, his flashes of intense feeling — declared 
that nobody ought to be Confirmed if he were not, and begged and 
entreated that Mr. Wilmot might be written to, and consulted. She 
would almost have done so herself, if Richard had not shown her 
that it would be undutiful. 

Harry himself was really subdued. He made no question as to 
the propriety of the decision, but rather felt his own unworthiness, 
and was completely humbled and downcast. When a note came 
from Mrs. Anderson, saying that she was convinced that it could 
not have been Dr. May’s wish that she should be exposed to the 
indignity of a practical joke, and that a young lady of the highest 
family should have been insulted, no one had spirits to laugh at the 
terms ; and when Dr. May said, 1 What is to be done ? ’ Harry 
turned crimson, and was evidently trying to utter something. 

1 1 see nothing for it but for him to ask their pardon,’ said Dr. 
May — and a sound was heard, not very articulate, but .expressing 
full assent. 

1 That is right,’ said the Doctor. 1 I’ll come with you.’ 

1 0, thank you ! ’ cried Harry, looking up. 

They set off at once. Mrs. Anderson was neither an unpleasing 
nor unkind person — her chief defect being a blind admiration of her 
sons and daughters, which gave her, in speaking of them, a tone of 
pretension that she would never have shown on her own account. 

Her displeasure was pacified in a moment by the sight of the 
confused contrition of the culprit, coupled with his father’s frank 
and kindly tone of avowal, that it had been a foolish improper frolic, 
and that he had been much displeased with him for it. 

< Say no more — pray say no more, Dr. May. We all know how 
to overlook a sailor’s frolic, and, I am sure, Master Harry’s present 
behaviour — but you’ll take a bit of luncheon,’ and, as something 
was said of going home to the early dinner, 1 1 am sure you will 
wait one minute. Master Harry must have a piece of my cake, 
and allow me to drink to his success.’ 

Poor Mr. May ! to be called Master Harry, and treated to sweet 
cake ! But he saw his father thought he ought to endure, and he 
even said, ‘ thank you.’ 

The cake stuck in his throat, however, when Mrs. Anderson and 
her daughters opened their full course of praise on their dear 
Harvey, and dearest Edward, telling all the flattering things Dr. 
Hoxton had said of the order into which Harvey had brought the 
school, and insisting on Dr. May’s reading the copy of the testi- 
monial that he had carried to Oxford. ‘ I knew you would be kind 
enough to rejoice,’ said Mrs. Anderson, 1 and that you would have 
fto — no feeling about Mr. Norman; for, of course, at his age, a 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


255 


little matter is nothing, and it must be better for the dear boy 
himself to be a little while under a friend like Harvey, than to have 
authority while so young.’ 

1 1 believe it has done him no harm,’ was all that the Doctor 
could bring himself to say ; and thinking that he and his sons had 
endured quite enough, he took his leave as soon as Harry had con- 
vulsively bolted the last mouthful. 

Not a word was spoken all the way home. Harry’s own trouble 
had overpowered even this subject of resentment. On Sunday, the 
notice of the Confirmation was read. It was to take place on the 
following Thursday, and all those who had already given in their 
names, were to come to Mr. Ramsden to apply for their tickets. 
While this was read, large tear-drops were silently falling on poor 
Harry’s book. 

Ethel and Norman walked together in the twilight, in deep 
lamentation over their brother’s deprivation, which seemed espe- 
cially to humble them ; 1 for,’ said Norman, 1 1 am sure no one can 
be more resolved on doing right than J uly, and he has got through 
school better than I did.’ 

Yes,’ said Ethel ; 1 if we don’t get into his sort of scrape, it is 
only that we are older, not better. I am sure mine are worse, my 
letting Aubrey be nearly burnt — my neglects.’ 

‘ Papa must be doing right,’ said Norman, ‘ but for- July to be 
turned back when we are taken, makes me think of man judging 
only by outward appearance.’ 

1 A few outrageous-looking acts of giddiness that are so much 
grieved over, may not be half so bad as the hundreds of wandering 
thoughts that ono forgets, because no one else can see them ! ’ said 
Ethel. 

Meanwhile, Harry and Mary were sitting twisted together into 
a sort Df bundle, on the same footstool, by Margaret’s sofa. Harry 
had begged of her to hear him say the Catechism once more, and 
Mary had joined with him in the repetition. There was to be only 
one more Sunday at home. 

1 And that ! ’ he said, and sighed. 

Margaret knew what he meant, for the Feast was to be spread 
for those newly admitted to share it. She only said a caressing 
word of affection. 

‘ I wonder when I shall have another chance,’ said Harry. 1 If 
we should get to Australia, or New Zealand — but then, perhaps, 
there would be no Confirmation going on, and I might be worse by 
that time.’ 

J O, you must not let that be ! ’ 

‘ Why, you see, if I can’t be good here, with all this going on, 
what shall I do among those fellows, away from all ? ’ 

‘ You will have one friend ! ’ 

‘ Mr. Erncscliffe ! You are always thinking of him, Margaret, 


256 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


but perhaps lie may not go, and if he should, a lieutenant caunol dc 
much for a midshipman. No, I thought, when I was reading with 
my father, that somehow , it might help me to do what it called put- 
ting away childish things — don’t you know ? I might be able to 
be stronger and steadier, somehow And then, if — if — you know, 
if I did tumble overboard, or any thing of that sort, there is that 
about the — what they will go to next Sunday, being necessary to 
salvation.’ 

Harry laid down his head and cried ; Margaret could not speak 
for tears ; and Mary was incoherently protesting against any notion 
of his falling overboard. 

1 It is generally necessary, Harry,’ Margaret said, at last — 1 not 
in impossible cases.’ 

1 Yes, if it had been impossible, but it was not ; if I had not 
been a mad goose all this time, but when a bit of fun gets hold of 
me, I can’t think. And if I am too bad for that, I am too bad 
for — for — and I shall never see mamma again ! Margaret, it 
almost makes me af — afraid to sail.’ 

1 Harry, don’t, don’t talk so ! ’ sobbed Mary. 1 0 do come \o 
papa, and let us beg and pray. Take hold of my hand, and Mar- 
garet will beg too, and when he sees how sorry you are, I am sure 
he will forgive, and let you be Confirmed.’ She would have dragged 
him after her. 

1 No, Mary,’ said Harry, resisting her. ‘ It is not that he does 
not forgive. You don’t understand. It is what is right. And he 
cannot help it, or make it right for me, if I am such a horrid wretch 
that I can’t keep grave thoughts in my head. I might do it again 
after that, just the same.’ 

1 You have been grave enough of late ! ’ said Mary. 

1 This was enough to make me so,’ said Harry ; 1 but even at 
Church, sine ■) I came home, I have behaved ill ! I kicked Tom, to 
make him look at old Levitt asleep, and then I went on, because he 
did not like it. I know I am too idle.’ 

On the Tuesday, Dr. May had said he would take Norman and 
Etheldred to Mr. Kamsden. Ethel was gravely putting on her 
walking-dress, when she heard her father’s voice calling Harry, and 
she started with a joyful hope. 

There, indeed, when she came down stairs, stood Harry, his cap 
in his hand, and his face serious, but with a look on it that had as 
much subdued joy, as awe. 

‘ Dear, dear Harry ! you are going with us then ? ’ 

£ Yes, papa wrote to ask what Mr. Wilmot thought, and he 
said — ’ 

Harry broke off, as his father advanced, and gave her the letter 
itself to read. Mr. Wilmot answered, that he certainly should not 
refuse such a boy as Harry, on the proof of such entire penitence 
and deep feeling. Whether to bring him to the further privilege, 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


257 


might bo another question ; but, as far as the Confirmation was con- 
cerned, the opinion was decided. 

Norman and Ethel were too happy for words, as they went arm 
in arm along the street, leaving their dear sailor to be leant on by 
his father. 

Harry’s sadness was gone, but he still was guarded and gentle, 
during the few days that followed; he seemed to have learnt 
thought, and in his gratitude for the privileges he had so nearly 
missed, to rate them more highly than he might otherwise have 
done. Indeed, the doubt for the Sunday gave him a sense of 
probation. 

The Confirmation day came. Mr. Rivers had asked that his 
daughter might be with Miss May, and Ethel had therefore to be 
called for in the Abbotstoke carriage, quite contrary to her wishes, 
as she had set her heart on the walk to Church with her father and 
brothers. Flora would not come, for fear of crowding Mr. Rivers, 
who, with Mrs. Larpent, accompanied his darling. 

1 0 Margaret,’ said Flora, after putting her sister into the 
carriage, ‘ I wish we had put Ethel into a veil ! There is Meta all 
white from head to foot, with such a veil ! and Ethel, in her little 
white cap, looks as if she might be Lucy Taylor, only not so 
pretty.’ 

1 Mamma thought the best rule was to take the dress that needs 
least attention' from ourselves, and will be least noticed,’ said 
Margaret. 

‘ There is Fanny Anderson gone by in the fly with a white veil 
on ! ’ cried Mary, dashing in. 

1 Then I am glad Ethel has not one,’ said Flora. 

Margaret looked annoyed, but she had not found the means of 
checking Flora without giving offence; and she could only call 
Mary and Blanche to order, beg them to think of what the others 
were doing, and offer to read to them a little tale on Confirmation. 

Flora sat and worked, and Margaret, stealing a glance at her, 
understood, that, in her quiet way, she resented the implied reproof. 

‘ Making the children think me worldly and frivolous 1 ’ she thought, 

1 as if Margaret did not know that I think and feel as much as any 
reasonable person ! ’ 

The party came home in due time, and, after one kiss to Mar- 
garet, given in silence, dispersed, for they could not yet talk of what 
had passed. 

Only Ethel, as she met Richard on the stairs, said, ‘ Ritchie, 
do you know what the Bishop’s text was ? “ No man having put 

his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of 
God.” 5 

I Yes ? ’ said Richard, interrogatively. 

I I thought it might be a voice to me,’ said Ethel ; * besides 
what it says to all, about our Christian course. It seems to tell 


258 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


me not to be out of heart about all those vexations at Cocksmoor 
Is it not a sort of putting our hand to the plough ? ’ 

Dr. May gave his own history of the Confirmation to Margaret. 
1 It was a beautiful thing to watch,’ he said, ‘ the faces of our owe 
set. Those four were really like a poem. There was little Meta in 
her snowy whiteness, looking like innocence itself, hardly knowing 
of evil, or pain, or struggle, as that soft earnest voice made her vow 
to be ready for it all, almost as unscathed and unconscious of trial, 
as when they made it for her at her baptism — pretty little thing — 
may she long be as happy. And for our own Ethel, she looked as 
if she was promising on and on, straight into eternity. I heard her 
“ I do,” dear child, and it was in such a tone as if she meant to be 
ever doing .’ 

£ And for the boys ? ’ 

1 There was Norman grave and steadfast, as if he knew what he 
was about, and was manfully and calmly ready — he might have been 
a young knight, watching his armour.’ 

1 And so he is ! ’ said Margaret, softly. 1 And poor Harry ? ’ 

The Doctor could hardly command voice to tell her. ‘ Poor 
Harry, he was last of all, he turned his back and looked into the 
corner of the seat, till all the voices had spoken, and then turned 
about in haste, and the two words came on the end of a sob.’ 

‘ You will not keep him away on Sunday ? ’ said Margaret. 

1 Par be it from me. I know not who should come, if he should 
not.’ 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

4 What matter, whether through delight, 

Or led through vale of tears, 

Or seen at once, or hid from sight, 

The glorious way appears ? 

If step by step the path we see. 

That leads, my Saviour, up to thee ! ’ 

‘ I could not help it, 1 said Dr. May — 1 that little witch — ’ 

‘ Meta Rivers ? Oh ! what, papa ? ’ 

‘ It seems that Wednesday is her birthday, and nothing will 
serve her but to eat her dinner in the old Roman camp.’ 

‘ And are we to go ? 0 which of us ? ’ 

‘ Everyone of anything like rational years. Blanche is espe- 
cially invited.’ 

There were transports till it was recollected, that on Thursday 
morning school would recommence, and that on Friday Harry must 
join his ship. 

However, the Roman camp had long been an object of their 
desires, and Margaret was glad that the last day should have a 
brilliancy, so she would not hear of anyone remaining to keep her 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


250 


company, talked of the profit she should gain by a leisure daj, and 
took ardent interest in everyone’s preparations and expectations, in 
Ethel’s researches into country histories and classical dictionaries, 
Flora’s sketching intentions, Norman’s promises of campanula glo- 
merata , and a secret whispered into her ear by Mary and Harry. 

‘ Meta’s weather,’ as they said, when the August sun rose fresh 
and joyous ; and great was the unnecessary bustle, and happy con- 
fusion, from six o’clock till eleven, when Dr. May, who was going 
to visit patients some way further on the same road, carried off 
Harry and Mary, to set them down at the place. 

The rest were called for by Mr. Rivers’s carriage and break. 
Mrs. Charles Wilmot and her little girl were the only additions to 
the party, and Meta, putting Blanche into the carriage to keep 
company with her contemporary, went herself in the break. What 
a brilliant little fairy she was, in her pink summer robes, fluttering 
like a butterfly, and with the same apparent felicity in basking in 
joy, all gaiety, glee, and light-heartedness in making others happy. 
On they went, through honey-suckled lanes, catching glimpses of 
sunny fields of corn falling before the reaper, and happy knots of 
harvest folks dining beneath the shelter of their sheaves, with the 
sturdy old green umbrella sheltering them from the sun. 

Snatches of song, peals of laughter, merry nonsense, passed from 
one to the other ; Norman, roused into blitheness, found wit, the 
young ladies found laughter, and Richard’s eyes and mouth looked 
very pretty, as they smiled their quiet diversion. 

At last, his face drawn all into one silent laugh, he directed the 
eyes of the rest to a high green mound, rising immediately before 
them, where stood two little figures, one with a spy-glass, intently 
gazing the opposite way. 

At the same time came the halt, and Norman, bounding out, 
sprang lightly and nimbly up the side of the mound, and, while the 
spy-glass was yet pointed full at Wales, had hold of a pair of stout 
legs, and with the words, ‘ Keep a good look out ! ’ had tumbled 
Mr. May headforemost down the grassy slope, with Mary rolling after. 

Harry’s first outcry was for his precious glass — his second was, 
not at his fall, but that they should have come from the east, when, 
by the compass, Stoneborough was north-north-west. And then 
the boys took to tumbling over one another, while Meta frolicked 
joyously, with Nipen after her, up and down the mounds, chased by 
Mary and Blanche, who were wild with glee. 

By-and-by she joined Ethel, and Norman was summoned to help 
them to trace out the old lines of encampment, ditch, rampart, and 
gates — happy work on those slopes of fresh turf, embroidered with 
every minute blossom of the moor — thyme, birdsfoot, eyebright, 
and dwarf purple thistle, buzzed and hummed over by busy, black- 
tailed, yellow-banded dumbledores, the breezy wind blowing softly 
in their faces, and the expanse of country-wooded hill, verdant- 


260 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


pasture, amber harvest-field, winding river, smoke-canopied-town 
and brown moor, melting greyly away to the mountain heads. 

Now in sun, now in shade, the bright young antiquaries surveyed 
the old banks, and talked wisely of vallum and fossa, of legion and 
cohort, of Agricola and Suetonius, and discussed the delightful 
probability, that this might have been raised in the war with 
Caractacus, whence, argued Ethel, since Caractacus was certainly 
Arviragus, it must have been the very spot where Imogen met 
Posthumus again. Was not yonder the very high road to Milford 
Haven, and thus must not ‘ fair Fidele’s grassy tomb 5 be in the 
immediate neighborhood ? 

Then followed the suggestion that the mound in the middle was 
a good deal like an ancient tomb, where, as Blanche interposed with 
some of the lore lately caught from Ethel’s studies, ‘ they used to 
bury their tears in wheelbarrows,’ while Norman observed it was 
the more probable, as fair Eidele never was buried at all. 

The idea of a search enchanted the young ladies. ‘ It was the 
right sort of vehicle, evidently,’ said Norman, looking at Harry, 
who had been particularly earnest in recommending that it should 
be explored ; and Meta declared that if they could but find the 
least trace, her papa would be delighted to go regularly to work, 
and reveal all the treasures. 

Richard seemed a little afraid of the responsibility of treasure- 
trove, but he was overruled by a chorus of eager voices, and 
dispossessed of the trowel, which he had brought to dig up some 
down-gentians for the garden. While Norman set to work as 
pioneer, some skipped about in wild ecstasy, and Ethel knelt down 
to peer into the hole. 

Very soon there was a discovery — an eager outcry — some pot 
tery ! Roman vessels — a red thing that might have been a lamp 
another that might have been a lachrymatory. 

‘Well,’ said Ethel, ‘ you know, Norman, I always told you thai 
the children’s pots and pans in the clay ditch were very like Roman 
pottery.’ 

‘ Posthumus’s patty pan!’ said Norman, holding it up. ‘No 
doubt this was the bottle filled with the old queen’s tears when 
Cloten was killed.’ 

‘ You see it is very small,’ added Harry; ‘ she could not squeeze 
out many.’ 

‘ Come now, I do believe you are laughing at it ! ’ said Meta, 
taking the derided vessels into her hands. ‘ Now, they really are 
genuine, and very curious things, are not they, Flora? ’ 

Flora and Ethel admired and speculated till there was a fresh, 
and still more exciting discovery — a coin, actually a medal, with 
the head of an emperor upon it — not a doubt of his high nose being 
Roman. Meta was certain that she knew one exactly like him 
jrmong her father’s gems. Ethel was resolved that he should be 


THE DAISY CIIAIN. 


261 


Claudius, and began decyphering the defaced inscription THVRVS. 
She tried Claudius’s whole torrent of names, and, at last, made it 
into a contraction of Tiberius, which highly satisfied her. 

Then Meta, in her turn, read D. V. X., which, as Ethel said, 
was all she could wish — of course it was dux et imperator , and 
Harry muttered into Norman’s ear, 1 ducks and geese ! ’ and then 
heaved a sigh, as he thought of the Dux no longer. 1 V. V.,’ con- 
tinued Meta, 1 what can that mean ? ’ 

‘ Five, five, of course,’ said Flora. 

‘ No, no ! I have it, Venus Victrix ,’ said Ethel, ‘the ancestral 
Venus ! Ha ! don’t you see ? there she is on the other side, crown- 
ing Claudius.’ 

‘ Then there is an E ! ’ 

‘ Something about JEneas,’ suggested Norman, gravely. 

But Ethel was sure that could not be, because there was no 
diphthong ; and a fresh theory was just being started, when Blanche’s 
head was thrust in to know what made them all so busy. 

‘ Why, Ethel, what are you doing with Harry’s old medal of the 
Duke of Wellington ? ’ 

Poor Meta and Ethel, what a downfall ! Meta was sure that 
Norman had known it the whole time, and he owned to having 
guessed it from Harry’s importunity for the search. Harry and 
Mary had certainly made good use of their time, and great was the 
mirth over the trap so cleverly set — the more when it was disclosed 
that Dr. May had been a full participator in the scheme, had sug- 
gested the addition of the pottery, had helped Harry to some liquid 
to efface part of the inscription, and had even come up with them 
to plant the snare in the most plausible corner for researches. 

Meta, enchanted with the joke, flew off to try to take in her 
governess and Mrs. Wilmot, whom she found completing their 
ieisurely promenade, and considering where they should spread the 
dinner. 

The sight of those great baskets of good fare was appetizing, 
and the company soon collected on the shady turf, where Bichard 
made himself extremely useful, and the feast was spread without 
any worse mishap than Nipen’s running away with half a chicken, 
of which he was robbed, as Tom reported, by a surly looking dog 
that watched in the outskirts of the camp, and caused Tom to return 
nearly as fast as the poor little white marauder. 

Meta 1 very immorally,’ as Norman told her, comforted Nipen 
with a large share of her sandwiches. Harry armed himself with 
a stick, and Mary with a stone, and marched off to the attack, but 
saw no signs of the enemy, and had begun, to believe him a figment 
of Tom’s imagination, when Mary spied him under a bush, lying at 
the feet of a boy, with whom he was sharing the spoil. 

Harry called out rather roughly, ‘ Hollo ! what are you doing 
there ? ’ 


262 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


The boy jumped up, the dog growled, Marj shrank behind hei 
brother, and begged him not to be cross to the poor boy, but tc 
come away. Harry repeated his question. 

‘ Please, Sir, Toby brought it to me.’ 

‘ What, is Toby your dog ? 5 

‘ Yes, Sir. 

‘ Are you so hungry as to eat dog’s meat ? ’ 

‘ 1 have not had nothing before to-day, Sir.’ 

‘ Why, where do you live ? hereabouts ? ’ 

‘ 0 no, Sir ; I lived with grandmother up in Cheshire, but she 
is dead now, and father is just come home from sea, and he wrote 
down I was to be sent to him at Portsmouth, to go to sea with him.’ 

‘How do you live ? do you beg your way ? ’ 

‘ No, Sir ; father sent up a pound in a letter, only Nanny Brooks 
said I owed some to her for my victuals, and I have not much of it 
left, and bread comes dear, so when Toby brought me this bit of 
meat, I was glad of it, Sir, but I would not have taken it — ’ 

The boy was desired to wait while the brother and sister, in 
breathless excitement, rushed back with their story. 

Mrs. Wilmot was at first inclined to fear that the naval part of 
it had been inspired by Harry’s uniform, but the examination of 
Jem Jennings put it beyond a doubt that he spoke nothing but the 
truth ; and the choicest delight of the feast was the establishing 
him and Toby behind the barrow, and feeding them with such 
viands as they had probably never seen before. 

The boy could not read writing, but he had his father’s letter in 
nis pocket, and Mary capered at the delightful coincidence, on find- 
ing that Jem Jennings was actually a quarter-master on board the 
Alcestis. It gave a sort of property in the boy, and she almost 
grudged Meta the having been first to say that she would pay for 
the rest of his journey, instead of doing it by subscription. 

However, Mary had a consolation, she would offer to take charge 
of Tob'; who, as Harry observed, would otherwise have been drowned 
— he oouid not be taken on board. To be sure, he was a particu- 
larly ugly animal, rough, grisly, short-legged, long-backed, and with 
an apology for a tail — but he had a redeeming pair of eyes, and he 
and Jem lived on terms of such close friendship, that he would have 
been miserable in leaving him to the mercy of Nanny Brooks. 

So, after their meal, Jem and Toby were bidden to wait for 
Dr. May’s coming, and fell asleep together on the green bank, while 
the rest either sketched, or wandered, or botanized. Flora acted 
the grown-up lady with Mrs. Wilmot, and Meta found herself sitting 
by Ethel, asking her a great many questions about Margaret, and 
her home, and what it could be like to be one of such a numerous 
family. Flora had always turned aside from personal matters, as 
uninteresting to her companion, and, in spite of Meta’s admiration, 
«nd the mutual wisli to l?e intimate, confidence did not spring up 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


263 


spontaneously, as it had done with the Doctor, and, in that single 
hour, with Margaret. Blunt as Ethel was, her heartiness of manner 
gave a sense of real progress in friendship. Their Confirmation 
vows seemed to make a link, and Meta’s unfeigned enthusiasm for 
the Doctor was the sure road to Ethel’s heart. She was soon telling 
how glad Margaret was that he had been drawn into taking pleasure 
in to-day’s scheme, since, not only were his spirits tried by the 
approach of Harry’s departure, but he had, within the last few 
days, been made very sad by reading and answering Aunt Flora’s first 
letter on the news of last October’s misfortune. 

‘ My aunt in New Zealand,’ explained Ethel. 

‘Have you an aunt in New Zealand? ’ cried Meta. ‘I never 
heard of her ! ’ 

‘ Did not you ? Oh ! she does write such charming long let- 
ters ! ’ 

‘ Is she Dr. May’s sister ? ’ 

1 No ; he was an only child. She is dear mamma’s sister. I 
don’t remember her, for she went out when I was a baby, but 
Diehard and Margaret were so fond of her. They say she used to 
play with them and tell them stories, and sing Scotch songs to them. 
Margaret says the first sorrow of her life was Aunt Flora’s going 
away.’ 

‘ Did she live with them ? ’ 

1 Yes; after grandpapa died, she came to live with them, but 
then Mr. Arnott came about. I ought not to speak evil of him, 
for he is my godfather, but we do wish he had not carried off Aunt 
Flora l That letter of hers showed me what a comfort it would be 
to papa to have her here.’ 

1 Perhaps she will come.’ 

I No ; Uncle Arnott has too much to do. It was a pretty 
story altogether. He was an officer at Edinburgh, and fell in love 
with Aunt Flora, but my grandfather Mackenzie thought him too 
poor to marry her, and it was all broken off, and they tried to think 
no more of it. But grandpapa died, and she came to live here, and 
somehow Mr. Arnott turned up again, quartered at Whitford, and 
papa talked over my Uncle Mackenzie, and helped them — and Mr. 
Arnott thought the best way would be to go out to the colonies. They 
went when New Zealand was very new, and a very funny life they 
had ! Once they had their house burnt in Heki’s rebellion — and 
Aunt Flora saw a Maori walking about in her best Sunday bonnet — 
but, in general, everything has gone on very well, and he has a great 
farm, besides an office under government.’ 

< Oh ; so he went out as a settler ; I was in hopes it was as u 
missionary 1 

I I fancy Aunt Flora has done a good deal that may be called 
missionary work,’ said Ethel , 1 teaching the Maori women and girls. 
They call her mother, and she lias quite a doctor’s shop for them, 


264 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and tries hard to teach them to take proper care of their poor little 
children, when they are ill — and she cuts out clothes for the whole 
pah, that is, the village.’ 

1 And are they Christians ? ’ 

1 Oh ! to be sure they are now ! They meet in the pah for pray- . 
ers every morning and evening — they used to have a hoe struck 
against a hit of metal for a signal, and when papa heard of it, he 
gave them a hell, and they were so delighted. Now there comes a 
Clergyman every fourth Sunday, and, on the others, Uncle Arnott 
reads part of the service to the English near, and the Maori teacher 
to his people.’ 

Meta asked ravenously for more details, and when she had pretty 
well exhausted Ethel’s stock, she said , 1 How nice it must be ! Ethel, 
did you ever read the “ Faithful Little Grirl ? ” ’ 

‘ Yes; it was one of Margaret’s old Sunday hooks. I often re- 
collected it before I was allowed to begin Cocksmoor.’ 

I I’m afraid I am very like Lucilla ! ’ said Meta. 

£ What ? In wishing to he a hoy, that you might he a Mission- 
ary ! ’ said Ethel. 1 Not in being quite so cross at home ? ’ she 
added, laughing. 

I I am not cross, because I have no opportunity,’ said Meta. 

1 No opportunity. Oh, Meta ! if people wish to he cross, it is 
easy enough to find grounds for it. There is always the moon to 
cry for.’ 

I Really and truly,’ said Meta, thoughtfully, ‘ I never do meet 

with any reasonable trial of temper, and I am often afraid it can- 
not be right or safe to live so entirely at ease, and without contra- 
dictions.’ i 

‘ Well, hut — ’ said Ethel, 1 it is the state of life in which you 
arc placed.’ 

‘ Yes, hut are we meant never to have vexations.? ’ 

I I thought you had them,’ said Ethel. 1 Margaret told me 
about your maid. That would have worried some people, and made 
them horridly cross.’ 

1 Oh ! no rational person,’ cried Meta, 1 It was so nice to think 
of her being with the poor mother, and I was quite interested in 
managing for myself ; besides, you know, it was just a proof how 
one learns to be selfish, that it had never occurred to me that I 
ought to spare her.’ 

‘ And your school children — you were in some trouble about 
them ? ’ 

1 Oh ! that is pleasure.’ 

‘ I thought you had a class you did not like.’ 

‘ I like them now — they are such steady plodding girls, so much 
in earnest, and one, that has been neglected, is so pleased and 
touched by kindness. I would not give them up for anything now- ~ 
they are just fit for my capacity.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 265 

* Do you mean that nothing ever goes wrong with you, or that 
you do not mind anything — which ? ’ 

‘ Nothing goes wrong enough with me to give me a handsome 
excuse for minding it.’ 

‘ Then it must be all your good temper.’ 

‘ I don’t think so,’ said Meta — 1 it is that nothing is ever disa- 
greeable to me.’ 

‘ Stay,’ said Ethel , 1 if the ill-temper was in you, you would only 
be the crosser for being indulged — at least, so books say. And I 
am sure myself, that it is not whether things are disagreeable or 
not, but whether one’s will is with them, that signifies.’ 

‘ I don’t quite understand.’ 

£ Why — I have seen the boys do for play, and done myself, what 
would have been a horrid hardship if one had been made to do it. 
I never liked any lessons as well as those I did without being obliged, 
and always, when there is a thing I hate very much in itself, I can get 
up an interest in it, by resolving that I will do it well, or fast, or 
something — if I can stick my will to it, it is like a lever, and it is 
done. Now I think it must be the same with you, only your will 
is more easily set at it than mine.’ 

; What makes me uncomfortable is, that I feel as if I never 
followed anything but my will.’ 

Ethel screwed up her face, as if the eyes of her mind were pur- 
suing some thought almost beyond her. 1 If our will and our duty 
•un the same,’ she said, ‘ that can’t be wrong. The better people 
are, the more they u love what He commands,” you know. In 
Heaven they have no will but His.’ 

1 Oh ! but Ethel,’ cried Meta distressed, 1 that is putting it too 
nigh. Won’t you understand what I mean ? We have learnt so 
much lately about self-denial, and crossing one’s own inclinations, 
and enduring hardness. And here I live with two dear kind peo- 
ple, who only try to keep every little annoyance from my path. I 
can’t wish for a thing without getting it — I am waited on all day 
long, and I feel like one of the women that are at ease — one of the 
careless daughters.’ 

‘ I think still papa would say it was your happy contented tem- 
per that made you find no vexation.’ 

1 But that sort of temper is not goodness. I was born with it ; 
I never did mind anything, not even being punished, they say, unless 
I knew papa was grieved, which always did make me unhappy 
enough. I laughed, and went to play most saucily, whatever they 
did to me. If I had striven for the temper, it would be worth 
having, but it is my nature. And Ethel,’ she added, in a low voice, 
as the tears came into her eyes, 1 don’t you remember last Sunday ? 
I felt myself so vain and petted a thing ! as if I had no share in the 
Cup of suffering, and did not deserve to call myself a member — it 
seemed ungrateful.’ 

12 


260 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


Ethel felt ashamed, as she heard of warmer feelings than her 
own had been, expressed in that lowered trembling voice, and she 
sought for the answer that would only come to her mind in sense, 
not at first in words. 4 Discipline,’ said she, 4 would not that show the 
willingness to have the part ? Taking the right times for refusing 
oneself some pleasant thing.’ 

4 Would not that be only making up something for oneself ? ’ said 
Meta. 

4 No, the Church orders it. It is in the Prayer-book,’ said 
Ethel. 4 1 mean one can do little secret things — not read story 
books on those days, or keep some tiresome sort of work for them. 
It is very trumpery, but it keeps the remembrance, and it is not so 
much as if one did not heed.’ 

4 I’ll think,’ said Meta, sighing. 4 If only I felt myself at work, 
not to please myself, but to be of use. Ha ! ’ she cried, springing 
up, 4 1 do believe I see Dr. May coming ! ’ 

4 Let us run and meet him,’ said Ethel. 

They did so, and he called out his wishes of many happy returns 
of blithe days to the little birthday queen, then added, 4 You both 
look grave, though — have they deserted you ? ’ 

4 No, papa, we have been having a talk,’ said Ethel. 4 May I 
tell him, Meta ? I want to know what he says.’ 

Meta had not bargained for this, but she was very much in 
earnest, and there was nothing formidable in Dr. May, so she assented. 

4 Meta is longing to be at work — she thinks she is of no use,’ 
said Ethel — - 4 she says she never does anything but please herself.’ 

4 Pleasing oneself is not the same as trying to please oneself,’ 
said Dr. May, kindly. 

4 And she thinks it cannot be safe or right,’ added Ethel, 4 to 
live that happy bright life, as if people without care or trouble could 
not be living as Christians are meant to live. Is that it, Meta ? ’ 

4 Yes, I think it is,’ said Meta. 4 1 seem to be only put here to 
be made much of ! ’ 

4 What did David say, Meta ? ’ returned Dr. May. 

1 My Shepherd is the living Lord, 

Nothing therefore I need : 

In pastures fair, near pleasant streams, 

He setteth me to feed.’ 

4 Then you think,’ said Meta, much touched, 4 that I ought to 
look on this as 44 the pastures fair,” and be thankful. I hope I was 
not unthankful.’ 

4 0, no,’ said Ethel. 4 It was the wish to bear hardness, and be 
a good soldier, was it not ? ’ 

4 Ah ! my dear,’ he said, 4 the rugged path and dark valley will 
come in His own fit time. Depend upon it, the good Shepherd is 
giving you what is best for you in the green meadow, and if you lay 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 267 

hold on His rod and staff in your sunny days. — ’ He stopped short, 
and turned to his daughter. 

‘ Ethel, they sang that Psalm the first Sunday I brought your 
mamma home ? ’ 

Meta was much affected, and began to put together what the 
father and daughter had said. Perhaps the little modes of secret 
discipline, of which Ethel had spoken, might be the true means of 
clasping the staff — perhaps she had been impatient, and wanting in 
humility in craving for the strife, when her armour was scarce put 
on. 

Dr. May spoke once again. ‘ Don’t let anyone long for external 
trial. The offering of a free heart is the thing. To offer praise is 
the great object of all creatures in heaven and earth. If the 
happier we are, the more we praise, then all is well.’ 

Hut the serious discussion was suddenly broken off. 

Others had seen Dr. May’s approach, and Harry and Mary 
rushed down in dismay at their story having, as they thought, been 
forestalled. However, they had it all to themselves, and the Doctor 
took up the subject as keenly as could have been hoped, but the 
poor boy being still fast asleep, after, probably, much fatigue, he 
would not then waken him to examine him, but came and sat down 
in the semicircle, formed by a terraced bank of soft turf, where 
Mrs. Larpent, Mrs. Wilmot, Hichard, and Flora, had for some time 
taken up their abode. Meta brought him the choice little basket 
of fruit which she had saved for him, and all delighted in having 
him there, evidently enjoying the rest and sport very much, as he 
reposed on the fragrant slope, eating grapes, and making inquiries as 
to the antiquities lately discovered. 

Norman gave an exceedingly droll account of the great Homan 
Emperor, Tiberius V. V., and Meta, correcting it, there was a 
regular gay skirmish of words, which entertained everyone ex- 
tremely — above all, Meta’s indignation when the charge was brought 
home to her of having declared the 1 old Duke ’ exactly like in turns 
to Domitian and Tiberius — his features quite forbidding. 

This lasted till the younger ones, who had been playing and 
rioting till they were tired, came up, and throwing themselves down 
on the grass, Blanche petitioned for something that everyone could 
play at. 

Meta proposed what she called the story play. One was to be 
sent out of earshot, and the rest to agree upon a word, which was 
then to be guessed by each telling a story, and introducing the 
word into it, not too prominently. Meta volunteered to guess, and 
Harry whispered to Mary it would be no go, but in the meantime, 
the word was found, and Blanche eagerly recalled Meta, and sat in 
the utmost expectation and delight. Meta turned first to Hichard, 
but he coloured distressfully, and begged that Flora might tell his 
story for him — he should only spoil the game. Flora, with a. little 


2G8 


THE DAISY" CHAIN. 


tinge of graceful reluctance, obeyed. 4 No woman bad been to the 
summit of Mont Blanc,’ she said, 1 till one young girl, named Marie, 
resolved to have this glory. The guides told her it was madness, 
but she persevered. She took the staff, and everything requisite, 
and, following a party, began the ascent. She bravely supported 
every fatigue, climbed each precipice, was undaunted by the giddy 
heights she attained, bravely crossed the fields of snow, sypported 
the bitter cold, and finally, though suffering severely, arrived at 
the topmost peak, looked forth where woman had never looked be- 
fore, felt her heart swell at the attainment of her utmost ambition, 
and the name of Marie was inscribed as that of the woman who 
alone has had the glory of standing on the summit of the Giant of 
the Alps.’ 

It was prettily enunciated, and had a pleasing effect. Meta 
stood conning the words — woman — giant — mountain — glory — and 
begged for another tale. 

4 Mine shall not be so stupid as Flora’s,’ said Harry. 4 We have 
an old sailor on board the Alcestis — a giant he might be for his 
voice — but he sailed once in the Glory of the West, and there they 
had a monkey that was picked up in Africa, and one day this old 
fellow found his queer messmate, as he called him, spying through 
a glass, just like the captain. The captain had a glorious collec- 
tion of old coins, and the like, dug up in some of the old Greek 
colonies, and whenever Master Monkey saw him overhauling them, 
he would get out a brass button, or a card or two, and turn ’em 
over, and chatter at them, and glory over them, quite knowing — ’ 
said Harry, imitating the gesture, ‘and I dare say he saw V. V., 
and Tiberius Caesar, as well as the best of them.’ 

4 Thank you, Mr. Harry,’ said Meta. 4 1 think we are at no loss 
for monkeys here. But I have not the word yet. Who comes 
next ? Ethel — ’ 

4 1 shall blunder, I forewarn you,’ said Ethel, 4 but this is mine. 
44 There was a young king, who had an old tutor, whom he despised 
because he was so strict, so he got rid of him, and took to idle 
sport. One day, when he was out hunting in a forest, a white hind 
came and ran before him, till she guided him to a castle, and there 
he found a lady, all dressed in white, with a beamy crown on her 
head, and so nobly beautiful, that he fell in love with her at once, 
and was only sorry to see another prince who was come to her 
palace too. She told them her name was Gloria, and that she had 
had many suitors, but the choice did not depend on herself — she 
could only be won by him who deserved her, and for three years 
they were to be on their probation, trying for her. So she dis- 
missed them, only burning to gain her, and telling them to come 
back in three years’ time. But they had not gone far before they 
saw another palace, much finer, all glittering with gold and silver, 
and their Lady Gloria came out to meet them, not in her white 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


269 


dress, but in one all gay and bright with fine colours, and her 
crown they now saw was of diamonds. She told them they had 
only seen her every-day dress and house, this was her best ; and 
she showed them about the castle, and all the pictures of her former 
lovers. There was Alexander, who had been nearer retaining her 
than anyone, only the fever prevented it ; there was Pyrrhus, always 
seeking her, but slain by a tile — Julius Caesar — Tamerlane — all the 
rest, and she hoped that one of these two would really prove worthy 
and gain her, by going in the same path as these great people. 

1 “ So our prince went home ; his head full of being like Alexander 
and all the rest of them, and he sent for his good old tutor to 
reckon up his armies, and see whom he could conquer in order to 
win her. But the old tutor told him he was under a mistake ; the 
second lady he had seen was a treacherous cousin of Gloria, who 
drew away her suitors by her deceits, and whose real name was 
Yana Gloria. If he wished to earn the true Gloria, he must set to 
work to do his subjects good, and to be virtuous. And he did ; he 
taught them, and he did justice to them, and he bore it patiently 
and kindly when they did not understand. But by-and-by, the 
other king, who had no good tutor to help him, had got his armies 
together, and conquered ever so many people, and drawn off their 
men to be soldiers ; and now he attacked the good prince, and was 
so strong, that he gained the victory, though both prince and 
subjects fought manfully with heart and hand ; but the battle was 
lost, and the faithful prince wounded and made prisoner, but bearing 
it most patiently, till he was dragged behind the other’s triumphal 
car with all the rest, when the three years were up, to be presented 
to Yana Gloria. And so he was carried into the forest, bleeding 
and wounded, and his enemy drove the car over his body, and 
stretched out his arms to Yana Gloria, and found her a vain, ugly 
wretch, who grew frightful as soon as he grasped her. But the 
good dying prince saw the beautiful beamy face of his lady-love 
bending over him. 1 Oh ! ’ he said, 1 vision of my life, hast thou 
come to lighten my dying eyes ? Never — never, even in my best 
days, did I deem that I could be worthy of thee ; the more I strove, 
the more I knew that Gloria is for none below — for me less than all.’ 

1 u And then the lady came and lifted him up, and she said, 
* Gloria is given to all who do and suffer truly in a good cause, for 
faithfulness is glory, and that is thine.’ - 

Ethel’s language had become more flowing as she grew more 
eager in the tale, and they all listened with suspended interest. 
Norman asked where she got the story. 1 Out of an old French 
book, the Magazin des enfans ,’ was the answer. 

1 But why did you alter the end ? ’ said Flora, ‘ why kill the 
poor man ? He used to be prosperous, why not ? 

4 Because I thought,’ said Ethel, 1 that glory could not property 


270 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


belong to anyone here, and if he was once conscious of it, it would 
be all spoilt. Well, Meta, do you guess ?’ 

‘ Oh ! the word ! I had forgotten all about it. I think I know 
what it must be, but I should so like another story. May I not 
have one ? ’ said Meta, coaxingly. ‘ Mary, it is you.’ 

Mary fell back on her papa, and begged him to take hers. Papa 
told the best stories of all, ?he said, and Meta looked beseeching. 

1 My story will not be as long as Ethel’s,’ said the Doctor, yield* 
ing with a half reluctant smile. ‘ My story is of a humming bird, a 
little creature that loved its master with all its strength, and longed 
to do somewhat for him. It was not satisfied with its lot, because 
it seemed merely a vain and profitless creature. The nightingale 
sang praise, and the woods sounded with the glory of its strains ; 
the fowl was valued for its flesh, the ostrich for its plume, but what 
could the little humming bird do, save rejoice .’n the glory of the 
flood of sunbeams, and disport itself over the flowers, and glance in 
the sunny light, as its bright breastplate flashed from rich purple to 
dazzling flame colour, and its wings supported it, fluttering so fast 
that the eye could hardly trace them, as it darted its slender beak 
into the deep-belled blossoms. So the little bird grieved, and could 
not rest, for thinking that it was useless in this world, that it sought 
merely its own gratification, and could do nothing that could con- 
duce to the glory of its master. But, one night, a voice spoke to the 
little bird, “ Why hast thou been placed here,” it said, “ but at the 
will of thy master ? Was it not that he might delight himself in 
thy radiant plumage, and see thy joy in the sunshine ? His gifts 
are thy buoyant wing, thy beauteous colours, the love of all around, 
the sweetness of the honey drop in the flowers, the shade of the 
palm leaf. Esteem them, then, as his ; value thine own bliss, while 
it lasts, as the token of his care and love ; and while thy heart praises 
him for them, and thy wings quiver and dance to the tune of that 
praise, then, indeed, thy gladness conduces to no vain-glory of thine 
own, in beauty, or in graceful flight, but thou art a creature serving 
as best thou canst to his glory.” ’ 

‘ I know the word,’ half whispered Meta, not without a trembling 
of the lip. ‘ I know why you told the story, Dr. May, but one is 
not as good as the humming birds.’ 

The elder ladies had begun to look at watches, and talk of time 
to go home; and Jem Jennings having been seen rearing himself 
up from behind the barrow, the Doctor proceeded to investigate his 
case, was perfectly satisfied of the boy’s truth, and as ready as the 
young ones to befriend him. A letter should be written at once, 
desiring his father to look out for him on Friday, when he should 
go by the same train as Harry, who was delighted at the notion of 
protecting him so far, and begged to be allowed to drive him home 
to Stoneborough in the gig. 

Consent was given; and Hi chard being added to give weight 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


271 


aiid discretion, the gig set out at once — the Doctor, much tc Meta’s 
delight, took his place in the break. Blanche, who, in the morning, 
had been inclined to despise it as something akin to a cart, now 
finding it a popular conveyance, was urgent to return in it ; and 
Flora was made over to the carriage, not at all unwillingly, for, 
though it separated her from Meta, it made a senior of her. 

Norman’s fate conveyed him to the exalted seat beside the driver 
of the break, where he could only now and then catch the sounds of 
mirth from below. He had enjoyed the day exceedingly, with that 
sort of abandon more than ordinarily delicious to grave or saddened 
temperaments, when roused or drawn out for a time. Meta’s win- 
ning grace and sweetness had a peculiar charm for him, and, per- 
haps, his having been originally introduced to her as ill, and in sor- 
row, had given her manner towards him a sort of kindness which 
was very gratifying. 

And now he felt as if he was going back to a very dusky dusty 
world ; the last and blithest day of his holidays was past, and he 
must return to the misapprehensions and injustice that had blighted 
his school career, be kept beneath boys with half his ability, and 
without generous feeling, and find all his attainments useless in re- 
storing his position. Dr. Hoxton’s dull scholarship would chill all 
pleasure in his studies^ — there would be no companionship among 
the boys — even his supporters, Ernescliffe and Larkins, were gone, 
and Harry would leave him still under a cloud. 

Norman felt it more as disgrace than he had done since the first, 
and wished be had consented to quit the school when it had been 7 
offered — be made a man, instead of suffering these doubly irksome 
provocations, which rose before him in renewed force. 1 And what 
would that little humming bird think of me if she knew me dis- 
graced ? ’ thought he. ‘ But it is of no use to think of it. I must 
go through with it, and as I always am getting vain-glorious, I had 
better have no opportunity. I did not declare I renounced vain- 
pomp and glory last week, to begin coveting them now again.’ 

So Norman repressed the sigh as he looked at the school-build- 
ings, which never could give him the pleasures of m emory they af- 
forded to others. 

The break had set out before the carriage, so that Meta had to 
come in and wait for her governess. Before the vehicle had dis- 
gorged half its contents, Harry had rushed out to meet them. 

* Come in ! come in, Norman ! Only hear. Margaret shall tell you 
herself ! Hurra ! ’ 

Is Mr. Ernescliffe come ? crossed Ethel’s mind, but Margaret 
was alone, flushed, and holding out her hands. ‘ Norman! where 
is he ? Dear Norman, here is good news ! Papa, Dr. Hoxton has 
been here, and he knows all about it — and oh ! Norman, he is very 
sorry for the injustice, and you are Dux again ! ’ 

Norman really trembled so much that hi could neither speak 


272 


THE DAISY CHAIN'. 


nor stand, but sat down on the window-seat, while a eonfusbn of 
tongues asked more. 

Dr. Hoxton and Mr. Larkins had come to call — heard no one 
was at home but Miss May — had, nevertheless, come in — and Mar- 
garet had heard that Mr. Larkins, who had before intended to re- 
move his son from Stoneborough, had, in the course of the holidays, 
made discoveries from him, which he could not feel justified in con* 
cealing from Dr. Hoxton. 

The whole of the transactions with Ballhatchet, and Norman’s 
part in them, had been explained, as well as the true history of the 
affray in Randall’s alley — how Norman had dispersed the boys, how 
they had again collected, and, with the full concurrence of Harvey 
Anderson, renewed the mischief, how the- Andersons had refused to 
bear witness in his favour, and how Ballhatchet’s ill-will had kept 
back the evidence which would have cleared him. 

Little Larkins had told all, and his father had no scruple in re- 
peating it, and causing the investigation to be set on foot. Nay, he 
deemed that Norman’s influence had saved his son, and came, as 
anxious to thank him, as Dr. Hoxton, warm-hearted, though inju- 
dicious, was to repair liis injustice. They were much surprised and 
struck by finding that Dr. May had been aware of the truth the 
whole time, and had patiently put up with the injustice, and the loss 
of the scholarship — a loss which Dr. Hoxton would have given any- 
thing to repair, so as to have sent up a scholar likely to do him so 
much credit ; but it was now too late, and he had only been able to 
tell Margaret how dismayed he was at finding out that the boy to 
whom all the good order in his school was owing, had been so ill- 
used. Kind Dr. May’s first feeling really seemed to be pity and sym- 
pathy for his old friend, the head master, in the shock of such a dis- 
covery. Harry was vociferously telling his version of the story to 
Ethel and Mary. Tom stood transfixed in attention. Meta, forgot- 
ten and bewildered, was standing near Norman, whose colour rapidly 
varied, and whose breath came short and quick as he listened. A 
quick half interrogation passed Meta’s lips, heard by no one else. 

‘ It is only that it is all right,’ he answered, scarcely audibly ; 
‘ they have found out the truth.’ 

‘ What — who — you ? ’ said Meta, as she heard words that im- 
plied the past suspicion. 

‘ Yes,’ said Norman, 1 1 was suspected, but never at home.’ 

‘ And is it over now ? ’ 

1 Yes, yes,’ he whispered huskily, ‘ all is right, and Harry will 
not leave me in disgrace.’ 

Meta did not speak, but she held out her hand in hearty con- 
gratulation; Norman, scarce knowing what he did, grasped and 
wrung it so tight, that it was positive pain, as he turned away his 
head to the window to struggle with those irrepressible tears. 
Meta’s colour flushed into her cheek as she found it still held, almost 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


273 


unconsciously perhaps, in his agitation, and she heard Margaret’s 
words, that both gentlemen had said Norman had acted nobly, and 
that every revelation made in the course of their examination, had 
only more fully established his admirable conduct. 

‘ 0 Norman ! Norman, I am so glad ! ’ cried Mary’s voice in 
the first pause, and, Margaret asking where he was, he suddenly 
turned round, recollected himself, and found it was not the back of 
the chair that he had been squeezing, blushed intensely, but made 
no attempt at apology, for indeed he could not speak — he only leant 
down over Margaret, to receive her heartfelt embrace ; and, as he 
stood up again, his father laid his hand on his shoulder, ‘ My boy, 
I am glad — ’ but the words were broken, and, as if neither could 
bear more, Norman hastily left the room, Ethel rushing after him. 

‘ Quite overcome ! ’ said the Doctor, ‘ and no wonder. He felt 
it cruelly, though he bore up gallantly. Well, July.’ 

‘ I’ll go down to school with him to-morrow, and see him Dux 
again ! I’ll have three-times-three ! ’ shouted Harry, ‘ hip ! hip ! 
hurra ! ’ and Tom and Mary joined in chorus. 

‘ What is all this ? ’ exclaimed Flora, opening the door — is every- 
one gone mad ? ’ 

Many were the voices that answered. 

‘Well! I am glad, and I hope the Andersons will make an 
apology. But where is poor Meta ? Quite forgotten ? ’ 

‘ Meta would not wonder if she knew all,’ said the Doctor, turn- 
ing, with a sweet smile that had in it something nevertheless of apology 

‘ Oh ! I am so glad — so glad ! ’ said Meta, her eyes full of tears 
as she came forward. 

And there was no helping it ; the first kiss between Margaret 
May, and Margaret Rivers, was given in that overflowing sympathy 
of congratulation. 

The Doctor gave her his arm to take her to the carriage, and, 
on the way, his quick warm words filled up the sketch of Norman’s 
behaviour ; Meta’s eyes responded better than her tongue, but, to 
her good-bye, she could not help adding. ‘Now I have seen true 
glory.’ 

His answer was much such a gripe as her poor little fingers had 
already received, but though they felt hot and crushed, all the way 
home, the sensation seemed to cause such throbs of joy, that she 
would not have been without it. 


T11E DAISY CHAIN, 




CHAPTER XXVII 

4 And fall of hope, day followed day, 

While that stout 6hip at anchor lay 
Beside the shores of Wight. 

The May had then made all things green, 

And floating there, in pomp serene, 

That ship was goodly to be seen, 

His pride and his delight. 

Yet then when called ashore, he sought 
The tender peace of rural thought, 

In more than happy mood. 

To your abodes, bright daisy flowers, 

He then would steal at leisure hours, 

And loved you, glittering in your bowera, 

A starry multitude.’ 

Wordsworth. 

Harry’s last home morning was brightened by going to the school 
to see full justice done to Norman, and enjoying the scene for him 
It was indeed a painful ordeal to Norman himself, who could, at the 
moment, scarcely feel pleasure in his restoration, excepting for the 
sake of his father, Harry, and his sisters. To find the head master 
making apologies to him, was positively painful and embarrassing, 
and his countenance would have been fitter for a culprit receiving a 
lecture. It was pleasanter when the two other masters shook hands 
with him, Mr. Harrison with a free confession that he had done him 
injustice, and Mr. Wilmot with a glad look of congratulation, that 
convinced Harry he had never believed Norman to blame. 

Harry himself was somewhat of a hero ; the masters all spoke to 
him, bade him good speed, and wished him a happy voyage, and all 
the boys were eager to admire his uniform, and wish themselves 
already men and officers like Mr. May. He had his long-desired 
three cheers for 4 May Senior ! ’ shouted with a thorough good-will 
by the united lungs of the Whichcote foundation, and a supplemen- 
tary cheer arose for the good ship Alcestis, while hands were held 
out on every side ; and the boy arrived at such a pitch of benevolence 
and good-humour, as actually to volunteer a friendly shake of the 
hand to Edward Anderson, whom he encountered skulking apart. 

‘ Never mind, Ned, we have often licked each other before now, 
and don’t let us bear a grudge now I am going away. We are 
Stoneborough fellows both, you know, after all.’ 

Edward did not refuse the offered grasp, and though his words 
were only , 4 Good-bye, I hope you will have plenty of fun ! ’ Harry 
went away with a lighter heart. 

The rest of the day Harry adhered closely to his father, though 
chiefly in silence ; Dr. May had intended much advice and exhor- 
tation for his warm-hearted, wild-spirited son, but words would not 
come, not even when in the still evening twilight they walked down 
alone together to the cloister, and stood over the little stone marked 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 275 

M. M. After standing there for somo minutes, Harry knelt to collect 
some of the daisies in the grass. 

1 Are those to take with you ? ’ 

‘ Margaret is going to make a Cross of them for my Prayer- 
book.’ 

‘ Aye, they will keep it in your mind — say it all to you, Harry. 
She may be nearer to you everywhere, though you are far from us. 
Don’t put yourself from her.’ 

That was all Dr. May contrived to say to his son, nor could 
Margaret do much more than kiss him, while tears flowed one by 
one over her cheeks, as she tried to whisper that he must remember 
and guard himself, and that he was sure of being thought of, at least, 
in every prayer ; and then she fastened into his book the Cross formed 
of flattened daisies, gummed upon a framework of paper. He begged 
her to place it at the Baptismal Service, for he said, ‘ I like that 
about fighting — and I always did like the Church being like a ship 
— don’t you V I only found that prayer out the day poor little 
Daisy was Christened.’ 

Margaret had indeed a thrill of melancholy pleasure in this task, 
when she saw how it was regarded. Oh ! that her boy might not 
(ose these impressions amid the stormy waves he was about to 
encounter. 

That last evening of home good nights cost Harry many a 
choking sob ere he could fall asleep ; but the morning of departure 
had more cheerfulness; the pleasure of patronizing Jem Jennings 
was as consoling to his spirits, as was to Mary the necessity of 
comforting Toby. 

Toby’s tastes were in some respects vulgar, as he preferred the 
stable, and Will Adams, to all Mary’s attentions ; but he attached 
himself vehemently to Dr. May, followed him everywhere, and went 
into raptures at the slightest notice from him. The Doctor said it 
was all homage to the master of the house. Margaret held that the 
dog was a physiognomist. 

The world was somewhat flat after the loss of Harry — that element 
of riot and fun — Aubrey was always playing at ‘ poor Harry sailing 
away,’ Mary looked staid and sober, and Norman was still graver, 
and more devoted to books, while Ethel gave herself up more com- 
pletely to the thickening troubles of Cocksmoor. 

Jealousies had arisen there, and these, with some rebukes for 
failures in sending children to be taught, had led to imputations on 
the character of Mrs. Green, in whose house the school was kept. 
Ethel was at first vehement in her defence; then when stronger 
evidence was adduced of the woman’s dishonesty, she was dread- 
fully shocked, and wanted to give up all connexion with her, and in 
both moods was equally displeased with Richard for pausing, and 
not going all lengths with her. 

Mr. Wilmot was appealed to, and did his best to investigate, but 


276 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


the only result was, to discover that no one interrogated, had anj 
notion of truth, except John Taylor, and he knew nothing of the 
matter. The mass of falsehood, spite, violence, and dishonesty, 
that became evident, was perfectly appalling, and not a clue was to 
be found to the truth — scarcely a hope that minds so lost to 
honourable feeling were open to receive good impressions. It was a 
great distress to Ethel — it haunted her night and day — she lay awake 
pondering on the vain hopes for her poor children, and slept to 
dream of the angry faces and rude accusations. Margaret grew 
quite anxious about her, and her elders were seriously considering 
the propriety of her continuing her labours at Cocksmoor. 

Mr. Wilmot would not be at Stoneborough after Christmas. His 
father’s declining health made him be required at home, and since 
Richard was so often absent, it became matter of doubt whether the 
Miss Mays ought to be allowed to persevere, unassisted by older 
heads, in such a locality. 

This doubt put Ethel into an agony. Though she had lately 
been declaring that it made her very unhappy to go — she could not 
bear the sight of Mrs. Green, and that she knew all her efforts were 
vain while the poor children had such homes; she now only 
implored to be allowed to go on ; she said that the badness of the 
people only made it more needful to do their utmost for them- 
there was no end to the arguments that she poured forth upon her 
ever kind listener, Margaret. 

1 Yes, dear Ethel, yes, but pray be calm ; I know papa and 
Mr. Wilmot would not put a stop to it, if they could possibly help 
it, but if it is not proper — ’ 

1 Proper ! that is as bad as Miss Winter ! ’ 

Ethel, you and I cannot judge of these things — you must leave 
iCm to our elders — ’ 

1 And men always are so fanciful about ladies — ’ 

I Indeed, if you speak in that way, I shall think it is really hurting 
you.’ 

I I did not mean it, dear Margaret,’ said Ethel, ‘ but if you knew 
what I feel for poor Cocksmoor, you would not wonder that I cannot 
bear it.’ 

1 1 do not wonder, dearest, but if this trial is sent you, perhaps it 
is to train you for better things.’ 

‘ Perhaps it is for my fault,’ said Ethel. ‘ Oh ! oh ! if it be that 
I am too unworthy. And it is the only hope ; no one will do any- 
thing to teach these poor creatures, if I give it up. What shall I 
do, Margaret ? ’ 

Margaret drew her down close to her, and whispered, 1 Trust 
them, Ethel dear. The decision will be whatever is the will of 
God. If he thinks fit to give you the work, it will come; if not, 
He will give you some other, and provide for them.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 277 

‘ If I have been too neglectful of home, too vain of persevering 
when no one but Richard would,’ sighed Ethel. 

‘ I cannot see that you have, dearest,’ said Margaret, fondly, ‘ but 
your own heart must tell you that. And now, only try to be calm 
and patient. Getting into these fits of despair is the very thing to 
make people decide against you. ’ 

‘ I will ! I will ! I will try to be patient,’ sobbed Ethel ; ‘ I know 
to be wayward and set on it would only hurt. I might only do 
more harm — I’ll try. But oh ! my poor children.’ 

Margaret gave a little space for the struggle with herself, then 
advised her resolutely to fix her attention on something else. It 
was a Saturday morning, and time was more free than usual, so 
Margaret was able to persuade her to continue a half-forgotten 
drawing, while listening to an interesting article in a review, which 
opened to her that there were too many Cocksmoors in the world. 

The dinner hour sounded too soon, and, as she was crossing the 
hall, to put away her drawing materials, the front door gave the 
click peculiar to Dr. May’s left-handed way of opening it. She 
paused, and saw him enter, flushed, and with a look that certified 
her that something had happened. 

1 Well, Ethel ! he is come.’ 

1 Oh papa ! Mr. Ernes — ’ 

He held up his finger, drew her into the study, and shut the 
door. The expression of mystery and amusement gave way to 
sadness and gravity as he sat down in his arm-chair, and sighed as 
if much fatigued. She was checked and alarmed, but she could not 
help asking, ‘ Is he here ? ’ 

1 At the Swan. He came last night, and watched for me this 
morning, as I came out of the hospital. We have been walking 
over the meadows to Eordholm.’ 

No wonder Dr. May was hot and tired. 

1 But is he not coming ? ’ asked Ethel. 

‘ Yes, poor fellow ; but hush, stop, say nothing to the others. I 
must not have her agitated till she has had her dinner in peace, and 
the house is quiet. You know she cannot run away to her room as 
you would.’ 

1 Then he is really come for that ? ’ cried Ethel, breathlessly; and, 
perceiving the affirmative, added, ‘ but why did he wait so long ? ’ 

1 He wished to see his way through his affairs, and also wanted 
to hear of her from Harry. I am afraid poor J uly’s colours were 
too bright.’ 

1 And why did he come to the Swan instead of to us ? ’ 

* That was his fine, noble feeling. He thought it right to see me 
first, that if I thought the decision too trying for Margaret, in her 
present state, or if I disapproved of the long engagement, I might 
f«pare her all knowledge of his coming.’ 

1 Oh papa ! you won’t ! ’ 


278 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ I don’t know but that I ought — but yet — the fact is, that 1 
cannot. With that fine young fellow so generously, fondly attached, 
I cannot find it in my heart to send him away for four years without 
seeing her, and yet, poor things, it might be better for them both. 
0 Ethel, if your mother were but here ! * 

He rested his forehead on his hands, and Ethel stood aghast at 
his unexpected reception of the addresses for which she had so long 
hoped. She did not venture to speak, and presently he roused 
himself as the dinner-bell rang. 1 One comfort is, 7 he said, 1 that 
Margaret has more composure than I. Ho you go to Cocksmoor 
this afternoon ? 7 

“ I wished it. 7 

1 Take them all with you. You may tell them why when you 
are out. I must have the house quiet. I shall get Margaret out 
into the shade, and prepare her, as best I can, before he comes at 
three o’clock. 7 

It was flattering not to be thus cleared out of the way, especially 
when full of excited curiosity, but any such sensation was quite 
overborne by sympathy in his great anxiety, and Ethel’s only ques- 
tion was, 1 Had not Flora better stay, to keep off company ? 7 

‘ No, no,’ said Hr. May, impatiently, ‘ the fewer the better: 7 and 
hastily passing her, he dashed up to his room, nearly running over 
the nursery procession, and, in a very few seconds, was seated at 
table, eating and speaking by snatches, and swallowing endless 
draughts of cold water. 

‘ You are going to Cocksmoor ! 7 said he, as they were finishing. 

‘ It is the right day, 7 said Richard. ‘ Are you coming, Flora V 7 

1 Not to-day, I have to call on Mrs. Hoxton. 7 

‘ Never mind Mrs. Iloxton, 7 said the Hoctor — ‘ you had bettci 
go to-day, a fine cool day for a walk.’ 

He did not look as if he had found it so. 

‘ 0 yes, Flora, you must come, 7 said Ethel, ‘we want you. 7 

‘ I have engagements at home,’ replied Flora. 

‘ And it really is a trying walk, 7 said Miss Winter. 

‘ You must,’ reiterated Ethel. ‘ Come to our room and I will 
Sell you why.’ 

‘ I do not mean to go to Cocksmoor till something positive is 
settled. I cannot have anything to do with that woman.’ 

‘ If you would only come up-stairs,’ implored Ethel, at the door. 
( I have something to tell you alone. 7 

‘ I shall come up in due time. I thought you had outgrown 
closetings, and foolish secrets, 7 said Flora. 

Her movements were quickened however by her father, who, 
finding her with Margaret in the drawing-room, ordered her up. 
stairs in a peremptory manner, which she resented, as treating hei 
like a child, and therefore proceeded in no amiable mood to the 
rt/om, where Ethel awaited her in wild tumultuous impatience. 


I'HE DAISY CHAIN. 


279 


‘ Well, Ethel, what is this grand secret ? ’ 

I 0 Flora ! Mr. Ernescliffe is at the Swan ! He has been speak 
ing to papa about Margaret.’ 

‘ Proposing for her, do you mean ? ’ said Flora. 

‘ Yes, he is coming to see her this afternoon, and that is the 
reaspn that papa wants us to be all out of the way.’ 

‘ Did papa tell you this ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Ethel, beginning to perceive the secret of her dis- 
pleasure, 1 but only because I was the first person he met ; and Nor- 
man guessed it long ago. Do put on your things ! I’ll tell you 
all I know when we are out. Papa is so anxious to have the coast 
clear.’ 

I I understand,’ said Flora, 1 but I shall not gy with you. Do 
not be afraid of my interfering with anyone. I shall sit here.’ 

‘ But papa said you were to go.’ 

If he had done me the favour of speaking to me himself,’ said 
Flora, 1 1 should have shown him that it is not right that Margaret 
should be left without anyone at hand in case she should be over- 
come. He is of no use in such cases, only makes things worse. I 
should not feel justified in leaving Margaret with no one else ; but 
he is one of those hand-over-head moods, when it is not of the least 
use to say a word to him.’ 

1 Flora ! how can you ? when he expressly ordered you.’ 

1 All he meant was, do not be in the way, and I shall not show 
myself unless I am needed, when he would be glad enough of me. 
I am not bound to obey the very letter, like Blanche or Mary.’ 

Ethel looked horrified by the assertion of independence, but 
Bichard called her from below, and with one more fruitless entreaty 
she ran down stairs. 

Bichard had been hearing all from his father, and it was com- 
fortable to talk the matter over with him, and hear explained the 
anxiety whioh frightened her, while she scarcely comprehended it ; 
how Dr. May could not feel certain whether it was right or expe- 
dient to promote an engagement which must depend on health so 
uncertain as poor Margaret’s, and how he dreaded the effect on the 
happiness of both. 

Ethel’s romance seemed to be turning to melancholy, and she 
walked on gravely and thoughtfully, though repeating that there 
lould be no doubt of Margaret’s perfect recovery by the time of the 
ceturn from the voyage. 

Her lessons were somewhat nervous and flurried, and even the 
eight of two very nice neat new scholars, of very different appearance 
from the rest, and of much superior attainments, only half interested 
her. Mary was enchanted at them as a pair of prodigies, actually 
able to read ! and had made out their names, and their former 
abodes, and how they had been used to go to school, and had just 
come to live in the cottage deserted by the lamented Una. 


280 


THE DAISY JIIAIN. 


Ethel thought it quite provoking in her brother to accede tc 
Mary’s entreaties that they should go and call on this promising 
importation. Even the children’s information that they were taught 
now by 1 Sister Cherry’ failed to attract her ; but Richard looked 
at his watch, and decided that it was too soon to go home, and she 
had to submit to her fate. 

Very different was the aspect of the house from the wild Irish 
cabin appearance that it had had in the M’Carthy days. It was the 
remains of an old farm-house that had seen better days, somewhat 
larger than the general run of the Cocksmoor dwellings. Respect- 
able furniture had taken up its abode against the walls, the kitchen 
was well arranged, and, in spite of the wretched flooring and broken 
windows, had an air of comfort. A very tidy woman was bustling 
about, still trying to get rid of the relics of her former tenants, who 
might, she much feared, have left a legacy of typhus fever. The 
more interesting person was, however, a young woman of three or 
four-and-twenty, pale, and very lame, and with the air of a respect- 
able servant, her manners particularly pleasing. It appeared that 
she was the daughter of a first wife, and, after the period of school- 
ing, had been at service, but had been lamed by a fall down-stairs, 
and had been obliged -to come home, just as scarcity of work had 
caused her father to leave his native parish, and seek employment at 
other quarries. She had hoped to obtain plain work, but all the 
family were dismayed and disappointed at the wild spot to which 
they had come, and anxiously availed themselves of this introduc- 
tion to beg that the elder boy and girl might be admitted into the 
town school, distant as it was. At another time, the thought of 
Charity Elwood would have engrossed Ethel s whole mind, now she 
could hardly attend, and kept looking eagerly at Richard as he talked 
endlessly with the good mother. When, at last, they did set off, he 
would not let her gallop home like a steam-engine, but made her 
take his arm, when he found that she could not otherwise moderate 
her steps. At the long hill, a figure appeared, and, as soon as 
Richard was certified of its identity, he let her fly, like a bolt from 
a cross-bow, and she stood by Dr. May’s side. 

A little ashamed, she blushed instead of speaking and waited 
for Richard to come up and begin. Neither did he say anything, 
and they paused till, the silence disturbing her, she ventured a 
1 Well, papa ! ’ 

1 Well, poor things. She was quite overcome when first I told 
her — said it would be hard on him, and begged me to tell him that 
he would be much happier if he thought no more of her.’ 

‘ Did Margaret ? ’ cried Ethel. 1 Oh ! could she mean it ? ’ 

1 She thought she meant it, poor dear, and repeated such things 
again and again ; but when I asked whether I should send him away 
without seeing her, she cried more than ever and said, ‘ You are 
tempting me ! It would be selfishness.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


281 


‘ 0 dear ! she surely lias seen him ! ’ 

‘ I told her that I would be the last person to wish to tempt hei 
to selfishness, but that I did not think that either could be easy in 
settling such a matter through a third person.’ 

1 It would have been very unkind, said Ethel ; 1 1 wonder she 
did not think so.’ 

4 She did at last. I saw it could not bo otherwise, and she said, 
poor darling, that when he had seen her, he would know the impos- 
sibility; bfit she was so agitated, that I did not know how it 
could be.’ 

I Has she ? ’ 

4 Aye, I told him not to stay too long, and left him under the 
tulip-tree with her. I found her much more composed — he was so 
gentle and considerate. Ah ! he is the very man ! Besides, he has 
convinced her now that affection briDgs him, not mere generosity, 
as she fancied.’ 

‘ 0, then, it is settled ! ’ cried Ethel, joyously. 

I I wish it were ! She has owned that if — if she wero in health 
— but that is all, and he is transported with having gained so much ! 
Poor fellow. So far, I trust, it is better for them to know each 
other’s minds, but how it is to be — ’ 

1 But, papa, you know Sir Matthew Fleet said she was sure to 
get well ! and in three years’ time’— 

4 Yes ! yes, that is the best chance. But it is a dreary look 
out for two young things. That is in wiser hands, however ! If only 
I saw what was right to do ! My miserable carelessness has undone 
you all ! ’ he concluded, almost inaudibly. 

It was, indeed, to him a time of great distress and perplexity, 
wishing to act the part of father and mother both towards his 
daughter, acutely feeling his want of calm decision, and torn to 
pieces at once by sympathy with the lovers, and by delicacy that 
held him back from seeming to bind the young man to an uncer- 
tain engagement, — above all, tortured by self-reproach for the com- 
mencement of the atachment, and for the misfortune that had ren- 
dered its prosperity doubtful. 

Ethel could find no words of comfort in the bewildered glimpse 
at his sorrow and agitation. Bichard spoke with calmness and good 
sense, and his replies, though brief and common-place, were not 
without effect in lessening the excitement and despondency which 
the poor Doctor’s present mood had been aggravating. 

At the door, Dr. May asked for Flora, and Ethel explained. If 
Flora had obtruded herself, he would have been irritated, but, as it 
was, he had no time to observe the disobedience, and saying that he 
hoped she was with Margaret, sent Ethel into the drawing-room. 

Flora was not there, only Margaret lay on her sofa, and Ethel 
hesitated, shy, curious, and alarmed; but, as she approached, she 
was relieved to see the blue eyes more serene even than usual, while 


282 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


a glow of colour spread over lier face, making her like the blooming 
Margaret of old times ; her expression was full of peace, but became 
somewhat amused at Ethel’s timid, awkward pauses, as she held out 
her hands, and said, 1 Come, dear Ethel.’ 

1 0, Margaret, Margaret ! ’ 

And Ethel was drawn into her sister’s bosom. Presently, she 
drew back, gazed at her sister inquiringly, and said in an odd, 
doubtful voice, 1 Then you are glad V ’ 

Margaret nearly laughed at the strange manner, but spoke with 
a sorrowful tone, ‘ Glad in one way, dearest, almost too glad, and 
grateful.’ 

‘ 0, I am so glad ! ’ again said Ethel ; ‘ I thought it was mak- 
ing everybody unhappy.’ 

‘ I don’t believe I could be that, now he has come, now I know ; ’ 
and her voice trembled. ‘ There must be doubt and uncertainty/ 
she added, ‘ but I cannot dwell on them just yet. They will settle 
what is right, I know, and, happen what may, I have always this 
to remember.’ 

‘ Oh ! that is right ! Papa will be so relieved ! He was afraid 
it had only been distress.’ 

‘ Poor papa! Yes, I did not command myself at first; I was 
not sure whether it was right to see him at all.’ 

‘ Oh ! Margaret, that was too bad ! ’ 

‘ It did not seem right to encourage any such — such,’ the word 
was lost, ‘ to such a poor helpless thing as I am. I did not know 
what to do, and I am afraid I behaved like a silly child, and did 
not think of dear papa’s feelings. But I will try to be good, and 
leave it all to them.’ 

‘ And you are going to be happy ? ’ said Ethel, wistfully. 

‘ Por the present, at least. I cannot help it,’ said Margaret. 
Oh ! he is so kind, and so unselfish, and so beautifully gentle — 
and to think of his still caring — but there, dear Ethel, I am not 
going to cry — do call papa, or he will think me foolish again. I 
want him to be quite at ease about me before he comes.’ 

‘ Then he is coming ? ’ 

1 Yes, at tea-time — so run, dear Ethel, and tell Jane to get his 
room ready.’ 

This message quickened Ethel, and after giving it, and report- 
ing consolingly to her father, she went up to Elora, who had been a 
voluntary prisoner up-stairs all this time, and was not peculiarly 
gratified at such tidings coming only through the medium of Ethel. 
She had before been sensible that, superior in discretion and 
effectiveness as she was acknowledged to be, she did not share so 
much of the confidence and sympathy as some of the others, and she 
felt mortified and injured, though in this case it was entirely her 
own fault. The sense of alienation grew upon her. 

She dressed quickly, and hurried down, that she might see 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


283 


Margaret alone, but the room was already prepared for tea, and the 
children were fast assembling. Ethel came down a few minutes 
after, and found Blanche claiming Alan Ernescliffe as her lawful 
property, dancing round him, chattering, and looking injured if he 
addressed a word to anyone else. 

‘ How did lovers look ? ’ was a speculation which had, more than 
once, occupied Ethel, and when she had satisfied herself that her 
father was at ease, she began to study it, as soon as a shamefaced 
consciousness would allow her, after Alan’s warm shake of the 
hand. 

Margaret looked much as usual, only with more glow and bright- 
ness — Mr. Ernescliffe, not far otherwise ; he was as pale and slight 
as on his last visit, with the same soft blue eyes, capable, however, 
of a peculiar keen, steady glance when he was listening, and which 
now seemed to be attending to Margaret’s every word or look, 
through all the delighted uproar which Aubrey, Blanche, and Mary 
kept up round him, or while taking his share in the general con- 
versation, telling of Harry’s popularity and good conduct on board 
the Alcestis, or listening to the history of Norman’s school ad- 
ventures, which he had heard, in part, from Harry, and how young 
Jennings was entered in the flag-ship, as a boy, though not yet to 
sail with his father. 

After the storm of the day, the sky seemed quite clear, and 
Ethel could not see that being lovers made much difference — to be 
sure papa displeased Blanche, by calling her away to his side, when 
she would squeeze her chair in between Alan’s and the sofa ; and 
Alan took all the waiting on Margaret exclusively to himself. 
Otherwise, there was nothing remarkable, and he was very much 
the same Mr. Ernescliffe whom they had received a year ago. 

In truth, the next ten days were very happy. The future was 
left to rest, and Alan spent his mornings in the drawing-room alone 
with Margaret, and looked ever more brightly placid, while, with 
the rest, he was more than the former kind play-fellow, for he now 
took his place as the affectionate elder brother, entering warmly 
into all their schemes and pleasures, and winning for himself a full 
measure of affection from all ; even his little god-daughter began to 
know him, and smile at his presence. Margaret and Ethel espe- 
cially delighted in the look of enjoyment with which their father 
sat down to enter on the evening’s conversation after the day’s 
work; and Flora was well-pleased that Mrs. Hoxton should find 
Alan in the drawing-room, and ask afterwards about his estate ; 
and that Meta Bivers, after being certified that this was their Mr. 
Ernescliffe, pronounced that her papa thought him particularly 
pleasing and gentlemanlike. There was something dignified in 
having a sister on the point of being engaged; 


284 .- 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

‘ Sail forth into the sea, thou 6hip, 

Through breeze arid cloud, right onward steer ; 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear 1 ’ 

Longfellow. 

Tranquillity only lasted until Mr. Ernescliffe found it necessary 
to understand on what terms he was to stand. Everyone was 
tender of conscience, anxious to do right, and desirous to yield to 
the opinion that nobody could, or would give. While Alan begged 
for a positive engagement, Margaret scrupled to exchange promises 
that she might never be able to fulfil, and both agreed to leave all 
to her father, who, in every way, ought to have the best ability to 
Judge whether there was unreasonable presumption in such a 
betrothal ; but this very ability only served to perplex the poor 
Doctor more and more. It is far easier for a man to decide when 
he sees only one bearing of a case, than when, like Dr. May, he not 
only sees them, but is rent by them in his inmost heart. Sympa- 
thizing in turn with each lover, bitterly accusing his own careless- 
ness as the cause of all their troubles, his doubts contending with 
his hopes, his conviction clashing with Sir Matthew Fleet’s opinion, 
his conscientious sincerity and delicacy conflicting with his affection 
and eagerness, he was perfectly incapable of coming to a decision, 
and suffered so cruelly, that Margaret was doubly distressed for his 
sake, and Alan felt himself guilty of having rendered everybody 
miserable. 

Dr. May could not conceal his trouble, and rendered Ethel 
almost as unhappy as himself, after each conversation with her, 
though her hopes usually sprang up again, and she had a happy 
conviction that this was only the second volume of the novel. 
Flora was not often called into his councils ; confidence never came 
spontaneously from Dr. May to her ; there was something that did 
not draw it forth towards her, whether it resided in that half-sar- 
castic corner of her steady blue eye, or in the grave common sense 
of her gentle voice. Her view of the case was known to be that 
there was no need for so much perplexity — why should not Alan be 
the best judge of his own happiness? If Margaret were to be 
delicate for life, it would be better to have such a home to look 
to ; and she soothed and comforted Margaret, and talked in a strain 
of unmixed hope and anticipation that often drew a smile from her 
sister, though she feared to trust to it. 

Flora’s tact and consideration in keeping the children away, 
when the lovers could best be alone, and letting them in, when the 
discussion was becoming useless and harassing, her cheerful smiles, 
her evening music that covered all sounds, her removal of all extra 


THE DAISY CHAIN 


285 


annoyances, were invaluable, and Margaret appreciated them as, 
indeed, Flora took care that she should. 

Margaret begged to know her eldest brother’s judgment, but had 
great difficulty in dragging it out. Diffidently as it was proposed, 
it was clear and decided. He thought that his father had better 
send Sir Matthew Fleet a statement of Margaret’s present condition, 
and abide by his answer as to whether her progress warranted the 
hope of her restoration. 

Never was Richard more surprised than by the gratitude with 
which his suggestion was hailed, simple as it was, so that it seemed 
obvious that others should have already thought of it. After the 
tossings of uncertainty, it was a positive relief to refer the question 
to some external voice, and only Ethel and Norman expressed 
strong dislike to Sir Matthew becoming the arbiter of Margaret’s 
fate, and were scarcely pacified by Dr. May’s assurance, that he had 
not revealed the occasion of his inquiry. The letter was sent, and 
repose returned, but hearts beat high on the morning when the 
answer was excepted. 

Dr. May watched the moment when his daughter was alone, 
carried the letter to her, and kissing her, said, with an oppressed 
voice, ‘I give you joy, my dear.’ 

She read with suspended breath and palpitating heart. Sir 
Matthew thought her improvement sure, though slow, and had 
barely a doubt, that, in a year, she would have regained her full 
strength and activity. 

4 You will show it to Alan,’ said Dr. May, as Margaret lifted 
her eyes to his face inquiringly. 

4 Will not you ? ’ she said. 

4 I cannot,’ he answered. 4 1 wish I was more helpful to you, 
my child,’ he added, wistfully, 4 but you will rest on him, and be 
happy together while he stays, will you not ? ’ 

4 Indeed I will, dear papa.’ 

Mr. Ernescliffe was with her as the Doctor quitted her. She 
held the letter to him, 4 But,’ she said, slowly, 4 I see that papa does 
not believe it.’ 

4 You promised to abide by it ! ’ he exclaimed, between entreaty 
and authority. 

4 I do ; if you choose so to risk your hopes.’ 

1 But,’ cried he, as he glanced hastily over the letter, 4 there can 
be no doubt ! These words are as certain as language can make 
them. Why will you not trust them ? ’ 

4 1 see that papa does not.’ 

4 Despondency and self-reproach make him morbidly anxious. 
Believe so, my Margaret ! You know he is no surgeon ! ’ 

4 His education included that line,’ said Margaret. 4 1 believe 
he has all but the manual dexterity. However, I would fain have 


286 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


faith in Sir Matthew, 7 she added, smiling, ‘ and perhaps 1 am only 
swayed hy the habit of thinking that papa must know best.’ 

‘ He does in indifferent cases; but it is an old axiom, that a 
medical man should not prescribe for his own family ; above all, in 
such a case, where it is but reasonable to believe an unprejudiced 
stranger, who alone is cool enough to be relied on. I absolutely 
depend on him ! ’ 

Margaret absolutely depended on the bright cheerful look of 
conviction. * Yes, she said, 1 we will try to make papa take pleasure 
in the prospect. Perhaps I could do more if I made the attempt.’ 

‘ I am sure you could, if you would let me give you more sup- 
port. If I were but going to remain with you ! ’ 

‘ Don’t let us be discontented,’ said Margaret, smiling, £ when so 
much more has been granted than I dare to hope. Be it as it may, 
let us be happy in what we have.’ 

‘ It makes you happy ? ’ said he, archly reading her face to draw 
out the avowal, but he only made her hide it, with a mute caress of 
the hand that held hers. She was glad enough to rest in the 
present, now that everything concurred to satisfy her conscience in 
so doing, and come what might, the days now spent together would 
be a possession of joy for ever. 

Captain Gordon contrived to afford his lieutenant another fort- 
night’s leave, perhaps because Jie was in dread of losing him 
altogether, for Alan had some doubts, and many longings to remain. 
Had it been possible to marry at once, he would have quitted the 
navy immediately ; and he would have given worlds to linger beside 
Margaret’s couch, and claim her the first moment possible, believing 
his care more availing than all. He was, however, so pledged to 
Captain Gordon, that, without strong cause, he would not have been 
justified in withdrawing; besides, Harry was under his charge, and 
Dr. May and Margaret both thought, with the captain, that an active 
life would be a better occupation for him than watching her. He 
would never be able to settle down at his new home comfortably 
without her, and he would be more in the way of duty while pur- 
suing his profession, so Margaret nerved herself against using her 
influence to detain him, and he thanked her for it. 

Though hope and affection could not at once repair an injured 
spine, they had wonderful powers in inciting Margaret to new efforts. 
Alan was as tender and ready of hand as Bichard, and more clever 
and enterprising; and her unfailing trust in him prevented all 
alarms and misgivings, so that wonders were effected, and her father 
beheld her standing with so little support, looking so healthful, and 
so blithe, that his forebodings melted away, and he talked joyously 
of the future. 

The great achievement was taking her round the garden. She 
could not bear the motion of wheels, but Alan adopted the ham- 
-mock principle, and, with the aid of Bichard and hi« crony, the 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


287 


carpenter, produced a machine in which no other power on earth 
could have prevailed on her to trust herself, hut in which she was. 
carried round the garden so successfully, that there was even a talk 
of next Sunday, and of the minister. 

It was safely accomplished, and tired as she was, Margaret felt, 
as she whispered to Alan, that he had now crowned all the joy that 
he had brought to her. 

Ethel used to watch them, and think how beautiful their coun- 
tenances were, and talk them over with her father, who was quite 
happy about them now. She gave assistance, which Alan never 
once called unhandy, to all his contrivances, and often floundered in 
upon his conferences with Margaret, in a way that would have been 
very provoking, if she had not always blushed and looked so exces- 
sively discomfited, that they had only to laugh and reassure her. 

Alan was struck by finding that the casual words spoken on the 
way from Cocksmoor had been so strenuously acted on, and he 
brought on himself a whole torrent of Ethel’s confused narratives, 
which Richard and Flora would fain have checked ; but Margaret 
let them continue, as she saw him a willing listener, and was grate- 
ful to him for comprehending the ardent girl. 

He declared himself to have a share in the matter, reminding 
Ethel of her appeal to him to bind himself to the service of Cocks- 
moor. He sent a sovereign at once, to aid in a case of the sudden 
death of a pig; and when securely established in his brotherly 
right, he begged Ethel to let him know what would help her most. 
She stood colouring, twisting her hands, and wondering what to say, 
whereupon he relieved her by a proposal to leave an order for ten 
pounds, to be yearly paid into her hands, as a fixed income for her 
school. 

A thousand a year could hardly have been so much to Ethel. 
1 Thank you! Oh, this is charming ! We could set up a regular 
school ! Cherry Elwood is the very woman ! Alan, you have made 
our fortune ! Oh, Margaret ! Margaret ! I must go and tell Ritchie 
and Mary ? * This is the first real step to our Church and all ! ’ 

1 May I do it ? ’ said Alan, turning to Margaret, as Ethel fran- 
tically burst out of the room ; 1 perhaps I should have asked 
leave ? 5 

‘ I was going to thank you,’ said Margaret. ‘ It is the very 
kindest thing you could have done by dear Ethel ! the greatest com- 
fort to us. She will be at peace now, when anything hinders her 
from going to Cocksmoor ’ 

4 1 wonder,’ said Alan, musing, 4 whether we shall ever be able 
to help her more substantially. I cannot do anything hastily, for 
you know Maplewood is still in the hands of the executors, and 1 
cannot tell what claims there may be upon me; but by-and-by, 
when I return, if I find no other pressing duty, might not a Church 
at Cocksmoor be a thank offering for all I have found here ? ’ 


28S 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ Oh ! Alan, what joy it would be ! ’ 

‘It is a long way off,’ he said sadly; ‘ and perhaps her force of 
perseverance will have prevailed alone.’ 

‘ I suppose I must not tell her, even as a vision.’ 

‘ It is too uncertain ; I do not know the wants of the Maple- 
wood people, and I must provide for Hector. I would not let these 
vague dreams interfere with her resolute work ; but, Margaret, 
what a vision it is ! I can see you laying the first stone on that 
fine healthy brow.’ 

‘ Oh ! your godchild should lay the first stone ! ’ 

‘ She shall, and you shall lead her. And there shall be Ethel’s 
sharp face full of indescribable things as she marshals her children, 
and Richard shall be Curate, and read in his steady soft tone, and 
your father shall look sunny with his boys around him, and you — ’ 

‘ Oh ! Alan ! ’ said Margaret, who had been listening with a 
smile, ‘ it is, indeed, a long way off ! ’ 

‘ I shall look to it as the haven where I would be,’ said the 
sailor. 

They often spoke together of this scheme, ever decking it in 
brighter colours. The topic seemed to suit them better than their 
own future, for there was no dwelling on that without an occasional 
misgiving, and the more glad the anticipation, the deeper the sigh 
that followed on Margaret’s part, till Mr. Ernescliffe followed her 
lead, and they seldom spoke of these uncertainties, but outwardly 
smiled over the present, inwardly dwelt on the truly certain hopes.- 
There were readings shared together, made more precious than all, 
by the conversations that ensued. 

The hour for parting came at last. Ethel never knew what 
passed in the drawing-room, whence every one was carefully 
excluded. Dr. May wandered about, keeping guard over the door, 
and watching the clock, till, at the last moment, he knocked, and 
called in a trembling voice, ‘ Ernescliffe ! Alan ! It is past the 
quarter ! You must not stay ! ’ 

The other farewells were hurried ; Alan seemed voiceless, only 
nodding in reply to Mary’s vociferous messages to Harry, and huskily 
whispering to Ethel, ‘ Good luck to Cocksmoor.’ 

The next moment the door had shut on him, and Dr. May and 
Flora had gone to her sister, whom she found not tearful, but beg- 
ging to be left alone. 

When they saw her again, she was cheerful ; she kept up her 
composure and animation without flagging, nor did she discontinue 
her new exertions, but seemed decidedly the happier for all that had 
passed. 

Letters came every day for her, and presents to everyone. Ethel 
had a gold chain and eye-glass, which, it was hoped, might cure 
her of frowning and stooping, though her various ways of dang- 
ling her new possession, caused her to be so much teazcd by Flora 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 289 

and Norman / that, but for regard to Margaret’s feelings, she would 
not have worn it for three days. 

To Mary was sent a daguerreotype of Harry, her glory and 
delight. Say, who would, that it had pig’s eyes, a savage frown, a 
pudding chin, there were his own tight rings of hair, his gold- 
banded cap, his bright buttons, how could she prize it enough ? 
She exhibited it to the little ones ten times a day, she kissed it 
night and morning, and registered her vow always to sleep with it 
under her £ pilow,’ in a letter of thanks, which Margaret defended 
and despatched, in spite of Miss Winter’s horrors at its disregard 
of orthography. 

It was nearly the last letter before the Alcestis was heard of at 
Spithead. Then she sailed ; she sent in her letters to Plymouth, 
and her final greetings by a Falmouth cutter — poor Harry’s wild 
scrawl in pencil, looking very sea-sick. 

‘ Dear papa and all, good-bye. We are out of sight of land. Three years, 
and keep up a good heart. I shall soon be all right. 

‘ Your H. May.* 

It was inclosed in Mr. Ernescliffe’s envelope, and with it came 
tidings that Harry’s brave spirit was not failing, even under unto- 
ward circumstances, but he had struggled on deck, and tried to 
write, when all his contemporaries had given in ; in fact, he was a 
fine fellow — everyone liked him, and Captain Gordon, though chary 
of commendation, had held him up to the other youngsters as an ex- 
ample of knowing what a sailor was meant to be like. 

Margaret smiled, and cried over the news when she imparted it 
— but all serenely — and though she was glad to be alone, and wrote 
journals for Alan, when she could not send letters, she exerted her- 
self to be the same sister as usual to the rest of the household, and 
not to give way to her wandering musings. 

From one subject her attention never strayed. Ethel had never 
found any lack of sympathy in her for her Cocksmoor pursuits ; but 
the change now showect that where once Margaret had been inter- 
ested, merely as a kind sister, she now had a personal concern, and 
she threw herself into all that related to it as her own chief interest 
and pursuit — becoming the foremost in devising plans, and arranging 
the best means of using Mr. Ernescliffe’s benefaction. 

The Elwood family had grown in the good opinion of the Mays. 
Charity had hobbled to Church, leaning on her father’s arm, and 
being invited to dinner in the kitchen, the acquaintance had been 
improved, and nurse herself had pronounced her such a tidy, good 
sort of body, that it was a pity she had met with such a misfortune. 
If Miss Ethel brought in nothing but the like of her, they should 
be welcome — poor thing, how tired she was | 

Nurse’s opinions were apt to be sagacious, especially when in 
the face of her prejudices, and this gave Margaret confidence: 
13 


290 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Cherry proved to have been carefully taught by a good Clergyman 
and his wife, and to be of very different stamp from the persons to 
whom the girls were accustomed. They were charmed with her, 
and eagerly offered to supply her with books — respecting her the 
more when they found that Mr. Hazlewood had already lent her 
their chief favourites. Other and greater needs they had no power 
to fill up. 

‘ It is so lone without the Church bells, you see, Miss,’ said 
Mrs. Elwood. ‘ Our tower had a real fine peal, and my man was 
one of the ringers. I seems quite lost without them, and there was 
Cherry, went a’most every day with the children.’ 

‘ Every day ! ’ cried Mary, looking at her with respect. 

‘ It was so near,’ said Cherry, ‘ I could get there easy, and I got 
used to it when I was at school.’ 

‘ Did it not take up a great deal of time ? ’ said Ethol. 

1 Why, you see, Ma’am, it came morning and night, out of work- 
ing times, and I can’t be stirring much.’ 

1 Then you miss it sadly ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Yes, Ma’am, it made the day go on well like, and settled a 
body’s mind, when I fretted for what could not be helped. But 
I £ry not to fret after it now, and Mr. Hazlewood said, if I did 
my best wherever I was, the Lord would still join our prayers 
together.’ 

Mr. Hazlewood was recollected by Mr. Wilmot as an old College 
friend, and a correspondence with him fully confirmed the favour- 
able estimate of the Elwoods, and was decisive in determining that 
the day-school, with Alan’s ten pounds as salary, and a penny a 
week from each child, should be offered to Cherry. 

Mr. Hazlewood answered for her sound excellence, and aptitude 
for managing little children, though he did not promise genius, such 
as should fulfil the requirements of modern days. With these 
Cocksmoor could dispense at present ; Cherry was humbly gratified, 
and her parents delighted with the honour and profit ; there was a 
kitchen which afforded great facilities, and Bichard and his carpenter 
managed the fitting to admiration ; Margaret devised all manner of 
useful arrangements, settled matters with great earnestness, saw 
Cherry frequently, discussed plans, and learnt the history and char- 
acter of each child, as thoroughly as Ethel herself. Mr. Bamsden 
himself came to the opening of the school, and said so much of the 
obligations of Cocksmoor to the young ladies, that Ethel would not 
have known which way to look, if Flora had not kindly borne the 
brunt of his compliments. 

Everyone was pleased, except Mrs. Green, who took upon her- 
self to set about various malicious reports of Cherry Elwood ; but 
nobody cared for them, except Mrs. Elwood, who flew into such 
passions, that Ethel was quite disappointed in her, though not in 
Cherry, who meekly tried to silence her mother, begged the young 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 291 

ladies not to be vexed, and showed a quiet dignity that soon made 
the shafts of slander fall inoffensively. 

All went well ; there was a school instead of a hubbub, clean 
faces instead of dirty, shining hair instead of wild elf-locks, orderly 
children instead of little savages. The order and obedience that 
Ethel could not gain in six months, seemed impressed in six days 
by Cherry ; the neat work made her popular with the mothers, her 
firm gentleness won the hearts of the children, and the kitchen was 
filled not only with boys and girls from the quarry, but with some 
little ones from outlying cottages of Fordholm and Abbotstoke, and 
there was even a smart little farmer, who had been unbearable at 
home. 

Margaret’s unsuccessful Bath chair was lent to Cherry, and in it 
her scholars drew her to Stoneborough every Sunday, and slowly 
began to redeem their character with the ladies, who began to lose 
the habit of shrinking out of their way — the Stoneborough children 
did so instead ; and Flora and Ethel were always bringing home 
stories of injustice to their scholars, fancied or real, and of triumphs 
in their having excelled any national school girl. The most stupid 
children at Cocksmoor always seemed to them wise in comparison 
with the Stoneborough girls, and the Sunday-school might have 
become to Ethel a school of rivalry, if Bichard had not opened her 
eyes by a quiet observation, that the town girls seemed to fare as 
ill with her, as the Cocksmoor girls did with the town ladies. Then 
she caught herself up, tried to be candid, and found that she was 
not always impartial in her judgments. Why would competition 
mingle even in the best attempts ? 

Cherry did not so bring forward her scholars, that Ethel could 
have many triumphs of this dangerous kind. Indeed, Ethel was often 
vexed with her ; for though she taught needlework admirably, and 
enforced correct reading, and reverent repetition, her strong provin- 
cial dialect was a stumbling-block; she could not put questions 
without book, and nothing would teach her Ethel’s rational system 
of arithmetic. That she was a capital dame, and made the children 
very good, was allowed ; but now and then, when mortified by hear- 
ing what was done at Stoneborough, Fordholm, or Abbotstoke, Ethel 
would make vigorous efforts, which resulted only in her coming 
home fuming at Cherry’s ‘ outrageous dullness.’ 

These railings always hurt Margaret, who had made Cherry 
almost into a friend, and generally liked to have a visit from her 
during the Sunday, when she always dined with the servants. 
Then school questions, Cocksmoor news, and the tempers of the 
children, were talked over, and Cherry was now and then drawn 
into home reminiscences, and descriptions of the ways of her former 
school. There was no fear of spoiling her — notice from her supe- 
riors was natural to her, and she had the lady-likeness of womanly 
goodness, so as never to go beyond her own place. She had had 


292 


TOE DAISY CHAIN. 


many trials, too, and Margaret learnt tlie true history of them, aa 
she won Cherry’s confidence, and entered into them, feeling their 
likeness, yet dissimilarity, to her own. 

Cherry had been a brisk happy girl in a good place, resting in 
one of the long engagements that often extend over half the life of 
a servant, enjoying the nod of her baker as he left his bread, and 
her walk from Church with him on alternate Sundays. But poor 
Cherry had been exposed to the perils of window cleaning ; and, 
after a frightful fall, had wakened to find herself in a hospital, and 
her severe sufferings had left her a cripple for life. 

And the baker had not been an Alan Ernescliffe ! She did not 
complain of him — he had come to see her, and had been much 
grieved, but she had told him she could never be a useful wife ; 
and before she had used her crutches, he was married to her pretty 
fellow-servant. 

Cherry spoke very simply ; she hoped it was better for Long, 
and believed Susan would make him a good wife. Ethel would 
have thought she did not feel, but Margaret knew better. 

She stroked the thin slight fingers, and gently said, ‘ Poor 
Cherry ! ’ and Cherry wiped away a tear, and said, 1 Yes, Ma’am, 
thank you, it is best for him. I should not have wished him to 
grieve for what cannot be helped.’ 

‘ Resignation is the great comfort.’ 

• ‘ Yes, Ma’am. I have a great deal to be thankful for. I don’t 
blame no one, but I do see how some, as are married, seem to get 
to think more of this world ; and now and then I fancy I can see 
how it is best for me as it is.’ 

Margaret sighed, as she remembered certain thoughts before 
Alan’s return. 

‘ Then, Ma’am, there has been such goodness ! I did vex at 
being a poor helpless thing, nothing but a burthen on father ; and 
when we had to go from home, and Mr. and Mrs. Hazlewood and 
all, I can’t tell you how bad it was, Ma’am.’ 

1 Then you are comforted now ? ’ 

1 Yes, Ma’am,’ said Cherry, brightening. ‘ It seems as if Ho 
had given me something to do, and there are you and Mr. Richard, 
and Miss Ethel, to help. I should like, please God, to be of some 
good to those poor children.’ 

‘ I am sure you will, Cherry ; I wish I could do as much.’ 

Cherry’s tears had come again. ‘ Ah ! Ma’am, you — ’ and she 
stopped shorj;, and rose to depart. Margaret held out her hand to 
wish her good-bye. ‘ Please, Miss, I was thinking how Mr. Hazle- 
wood said that God fits our place to us, and us to our place.’ 

4 Thank you, Cherry, you are leaving me something to re- 
member.’ 

And Margaret lay questioning with herself, whether the school- 
mistress had not been the most self-denying of the two ; but withal 


THE TAISY CHAIN. 293 

gazing on the hoop of pearls which Alan had chosen as the ring of 
betrothal. 

£ The Pearl of great price,’ murmured she to herself; £ if we hold 
that, the rest will soon matter but little ! It remaineth that both 
they that have wives, be as they that have none, and they that weep, 
as though they wept not, and they that rejoice, as though they re- 
joiced not ! If ever Alan and I have a home together upon earth, 
may all too confident joy be tempered by the fears that we have be- 
gun with ! I hope this probation may make me less likely to be 
taken up with the cares and pleasures of his position, than I might 
have been last year. He is one who can best help the mind to go 
truly upward ! But oh ! that voyage ! ’ 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


‘Heart affluence in household talk, 

From social fountains never dry.’ 

Tennyson. 

‘ Wiiat a bore ! 

1 What’s the matter now ? ’ 

£ Here has this old fellow asked me to dinner again ! ’ 

‘ A fine pass we are come to ! ’ cried Hr. May, half amused, half 
irate. 1 1 should like to know what I should have said at your age, 
if the head-master had asked me to dinner.’ 

£ Papa is not so very fond of dining at Hr. Hoxton’s,’ said Ethel. 

£ A whipper-snapper schoolboy, who might be thankful to dine 
anywhere ! ’ continued Hr. May, while the girls burst out laughing, 
and Norman looked injured. 

I It is very ungrateful of Norman,’ said Flora ; £ I cannot see 
what he finds to complain of.” 

£ You would know,’ said Norman, £ if, instead of playing those 
perpetual tunes of yours, you had to sit it out in that perfumy 
drawing-room, without anything to listen to worth hearing. If I 
have looked over that Court Album once, I have a dozen times, and 
there is not another book in the place ! ’ 

I I am glad there is not,’ said Flora. 1 1 am quite ashamed to 
see you for ever turning over those old pictures ! You cannot guess 
how stupid you look. I wonder Mrs. Hoxton likes to have you,’ 
she added, patting his shoulders between jest and earnest. 

1 1 wish she would not, then ! It is only to escort you.’ 

£ Nonsense, Norman, you know better ! ’ cried Ethel. 1 You 
know it is for your own sake, and to make up for their injustice, 
that he invites you, or Flora either.’ 


294 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


£ Hush, Ethel ! he gives himself quite airs enough already, 5 said 
the Doctor. 

‘ Papa ! ’ said Ethel, in vexation, though he gave her a pinch to 
show it was all in good humour, while he went on, 1 1 am glad to 
hear they do leave him to himself in a corner. A very good thing, 
too ! Where else should a great gawky schoolboy be ? 55 

1 Safe at home, where I wish he would let me be, 5 muttered 
Norman, though he contrived to smile, and followed Flora out of 
the room, without subjecting himself to the imputation of offended 
dignity. 

Ethel was displeased, and began her defence : 1 Papa ! I wish — 5 
and there she checked herself. 

‘ Eh ! Miss Ethel’s bristles up ! 5 said her father, who seemed in 
a somewhat mischievous mood of teazing. 

1 How could you, papa ? 5 cried she. 

1 How could I what, Miss Etheldred ? 5 

‘ Plague Norman,’ — the words would come. u Accuse him of 
airs. 5 

£ I hate to see young fellows above taking an honour from their 
elders,’ said Dr. May. 

‘ Now papa, papa, you know it is no such thing. Dr. Hoxton’s 
parties are very dull — you know they are, and it is not fair on 
Norman. If he -was set up and delighted at going so often, then 
you would call him conceited. 5 

1 Conceit has a good many lurking places, 5 said Dr. May. ‘ It is 
harder to go and be overlooked, than to stay at home. 5 

1 Now, papa, you are not to call Norman conceited ! 5 cried Ethel. 

‘ You don’t believe that he is any such thing. 5 

‘ Why, not exactly, 5 said Dr. May, smiling. 1 The boy has 
missed it marvellously ; but, you see, he has everything that subtle 
imp would wish to feed upon, and it is no harm to give him a lick 
with the rough side of the tongue, as your canny Scots grandfather 
used to say. 5 

‘ Ah ! if you knew, papa — ’ b?gan Ethel. 

If I knew ? 5 

1 No, no, I must not tell. 5 

I What, a secret, is there ? 5 

I I wish it was not ; I should like to tell you very much, but 
then, you see, it is Norman’s, and you are to be surprised. 5 

‘ Your surprise is likely to be very much like Blanche’s birthday 
presents, a stage aside. 5 

1 No, I am going to keep it to myself. 5 

Two or three days after, as Ethel was going to the school-room 
after breakfast, Dr. May beckoned her back to the dining-room, and 
with his merry look of significance, said, ‘ Well, ma’am, I have 
found out your mystery ! ’ 

1 About Norman ? Oh papa ! Did he tell you ? 5 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


295 


‘ When I came home from the hospital last night, at an hour 
when all respectable characters, except doctors and police, should 
be in their warm beds, I beheld a light in Norman’s window, so me- 
thought I would see what Gravity was doing out of his bed at mid- 
night — ’ 

* And you found him at his Greek — ’ 

1 So that was the meaning of his looking so lank and care-worn, 
just as he did last year, and he the prince of the school ! I could 
have found it in my heart to fling the books at his head ! ’ 

‘ But you consent, don’t you, to his going up for the scholar- 
ship ? ’ 

‘ I consent to anything, as long as he keeps within due bounds, 
and does not work himself to death. I am glad of knowing it, for 
now I can put a moderate check upon it.’ 

‘ And did he tell you all about it ? ’ 

‘ He told me he felt as if he owed it to us to gain something for 
himself, since I had given up the Bandall to gratify him — a pretty 
sort of gratification.’ 

1 Yes, and he will be glad to get away from school. He says he 
knows it is bad for him — as it is uncomfortable to be singled out in 
the way Dr. Hoxton does now. ‘ You know,’ pleaded Ethel, ‘ it is 
not ingratitude or elation, but it is, somehow, not nice to be treated 
as he is, set apart from the rest.’ 

1 True ; Dr. Hoxton never had taste or judgment. If Norman 
were not a lusus naturce ,’ said Dr. May, hesitating for a word, ‘ his 
head would have been turned long ago. And he wants companions 
too — he has been forced out of boyhood too soon, poor fellow — and 
Harry gone too. He does not get anything like real relaxation, 
and he will be better among youths than boys. Stoneborough will 
never be what it was in my time ! ’ added the Doctor, mournfully. 
1 1 never thought to see the poor old place come to this ; but there — 
when all the better class send their sons to the great public schools, 
and leave nothing but riff-raff here, one is forced, for a boy’s own 
sake, to do the same.’ 

1 Oh ! I am so glad ! Then you have consented to the rest of 
Norman’s scheme, and will not keep poor little Tom at school here 
without him ? 5 

‘ By what he tells me, it would be downright ruin to the boy. I 
little thought to have to take a son of mine away from Stoneborough ; 
but Norman is the best judge, and he is the only person who seems 
to have made any impression on Tom, so I shall let it be. In fact,’ 
he added, half smiling, ‘ I don’t know what I could refuse old June.’ 

1 That s right ! ’ cried Ethel. ‘ That is so nice ! Then, if Nor- 
man gets the scholarship, Tom is to go to Mr. Wilmot first, and 
then to Eton ! ’ 

‘ If Norman gains the scholarship but that is an if,’ said Dr May 


296 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


as though hoping for a loop-hole to escape offending the shade ol 
Bishop Whichcote. 

‘ Oh, papa, you cannot doubt of that ! ’ 

‘ 1 cannot tell, Ethel. He is facile pr biceps here in his own 
world, but we do not know how it may be when he is measured with 
public schoolmen, who have had more first-rate tutorship than poor 
old Hoxton’s.’ 

‘ Ah ! he says so, but I thought that was all his humility.’ 

‘ Better he should be prepared. If he had had all those advan- 
tages — but it may be as well after all. I always had a hankering 
to have sent him to Eton, but your dear mother used to say it was 
not fair on the others. And now, to see him striving in order to 
give the advantage of it to his little brother ! I only hope, Master 
Thomas is worthy of it — but it is a boy I can’t understand.’ 

‘ Nor I,’ said Ethel ; ‘ he never seems to say anything he can 
help, and goes after Norman without talking to anyone else.’ 

‘ I give him up to Norman’s management ! ’ said Dr. May. ‘ He 
says the boy is very clever, but I have not seen it ; and, as to more 
serious matters. — However, I must take it on Norman’s word, that 
he is wishing to learn truth. We made an utter mistake about 
him ; I don’t know who is to blame for it.’ 

‘ Have you told Margaret about Norman’s plan ? ’ asked Ethel. 

‘ No ; he desired me to say nothing. Indeed, I should not like 
Tom’s leaving school to be talked of beforehand.’ 

‘ Norman said he did not want Flora to hear, because she is so 
much with the Hoxtons, and he said they would all watch him.’ 

‘ Aye, aye ! and we must keep his secret. What a boy it is ! 
But it is not safe to say conceited things. We shall have a fall yet, 
Ethel. Not seventeen, remember, and brought up at a mere gram- 
mar-school.’ 

‘But we shall still have the spirit that made him try,’ said 
Ethel, ‘ and that is the thing.’ 

‘ And, to tell you the truth,’ said the Doctor, lingering, ‘for my 
own part, I don’t care a rush for it ! ’ and he dashed off to his 
work, while Ethel stood laughing. 

c Papa was so very kind,’ said Norman, tremulously, when Ethel 
followed him to his room, to congratulate him on having gained his 
father’s assent, of which he had been more in doubt than she. 

‘ And you see he piite approves of the scheme for Tom, except 
for thinking it disrespect to Bishop Whichcote. He said he only 
hoped Tom was worthy of it.’ 

‘ Tom ! ’ cried Norman. ‘ Take my word for it, Ethel, Tom will 
surprise you all. He will beat us all to nothing, I know ! ’ 

‘ If only he can be cured of — ’ 

‘ He will,’ said Norman, ‘ when once he has outgrown his frights, 
and that he may do at Mr. Wilmot’s, apart from those fellowa 


TI1E DAISY CHAIN. 297 

When I go up for this scholarship, you must look after his lessons, 
and see if you are not surprised at his construing ! ’ 

1 When you go. It will he in a month ! ’ 

‘ He has told no one, I hope.’ 

1 No; but I hardly think he will bear not telling Margaret.’ 

‘ Well — I hate a thing being out of one’s own keeping. I should 
not so much dislike Margaret’s knowing, but I won't have Flora 
know — mind that, Ethel,’ he said, with disproportionate vehemence. 

‘ I only hope Flora will not be vexed. But, oh dear ! how nice 
it will be when you have it, telling Meta Fivers, and all ! ’ 

‘ And this is a fine way of getting it, standing talking here. Not 
that I shall — You little know what public schools can do ! But that 
is no reason against trying.’ 

‘ Good night, then. Only one thing more. You mean that, till 
further orders, Margaret should not know.’ 

‘ Of course,’ said Norman, impatiently. 1 She won’t take any 
of Flora’s silly affronts, and, what is more, she would not care half so 
much as before Alan Ernescliffe came.’ 

‘Oh, Norman, Norman ! I’m sure — ’ 

‘ Why, it is what they always say. Everybody can’t be firs 
and Ernescliffe has the biggest half of her, I can see.’ 

‘I am sure I did not,’ said Ethel, in a mortified voice. 

‘ Why, of course, it always comes of people having lovers.’ 

‘ Then I am sure I won’t ! ’ exclaimed Ethel. 

Norman went into a fit of laughing. 

‘ You may laugh, Norman, but I will never let papa or any of 
you be second to anyone ! ’ she cried, vehemently. 

A brotherly home-truth followed : ‘ Nobody asked you, sir, she 
said ! ’ was muttered by Norman, still laughing heartily. 

‘ I know,’ said Ethel, not in the least offended, ‘ I am very ugly 
and very awkward, but I don’t care. There never can be anybody 
in all the world that I shall like half as well as papa, and I am glad 
no one is ever likely to make me care less for him and Cocksmoor.’ 

‘ Stay till you are tried,’ said Norman. 

Ethel squeezed up her eyes, curled up her nose, showed her teeth 
in a horrible grimace, and made a sort of snarl : ‘ Yah ! That’s the 
face I shall make at them ! ’ and then, with another good-night, ran 
to her own room. 

Norman was, to a certain extent, right with regard to Margaret 
— her thoughts and interests had been chiefly engrossed by Alan 
Ernescliffe, and, so far drawn away from her own family, that when 
the Alcestis was absolutely gone beyond all reach of letters for the 
present, Margaret could not help feeling somewhat of a void, and as 
if the home concerns were not so entire an occupation for her mind 
as formerly. 

She would fain have thrown herself into them again, but she 
became conscious that there was a difference. She was still the 


298 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


object of her father’s intense .tenderness and solicitude, indeed she 
could not be otherwise, but it came over her sometimes that she was 
less necessary to him than in the first year. He was not conscious 
of any change, and indeed, it hardly amounted to a change, and yet 
Margaret, lying inactive and thoughtful, began to observe that the 
fullness of his confidence was passing to Ethel. Now and then it 
would appear that he fancied he had told Margaret little matters, 
when he had really told them to Ethel — and it was Ethel who would 
linger with him in the drawing-room after the others had gone up 
at night, or who would be late at the morning’s reading, and disarm 
Miss Winter, by pleading that papa had been talking to her. The 
secret they shared together was, of course, the origin of much of 
this ; but also Ethel was now more entirely the Doctor’s own than 
Margaret could be after her engagement; and there was a likeness 
of mind between the father and daughter that could not but develop 
more in this year, than in all Ethel’s life, when she had made the 
most rapid progress. Perhaps, too, the Doctor looked on Margaret 
rather as the authority and mistress of his house, while Ethel was 
more of a playfellow ; and thus, without either having the least 
suspicion that the one sister was taking the place of the other, and 
without any actual neglect of Margaret, Ethel was his chief com- 
panion. 

‘ How excited and anxious Norman looks ! ’ said Margaret, one 
day, when he had rushed in at the dinner-hour, asking for his father, 
and, when he could not find him, shouting out for Ethel. ‘ I hope' 
there is nothing amiss. He has looked thin and worn for some 
time, and yet his work at school is very easy to him.’ 

1 1 wish there may be nothing wrong there again,’ said Flora. 

* There ! there’s the front door banging ! He is off ! Ethel ! ’ — 
stepping to the door, and calling in her sister, who came from the 
street door, her hair blowing about with the wind. — ‘ What did 
Norman want ? ’ 

‘ Only to know whether papa had left a note for Dr. Hoxton,’ said 
Ethel, looking very confused and very merry. 

‘ That was not all,’ said Flora. 1 Now don’t be absurd, Ethel — I 
hate mysteries.’ 

‘ Last time I had a secret, you would not believe it,’ said Ethel, 
laughing. 

‘ Come ! ’ exclaimed Flora, ‘ why cannot you tell us at once 
what is going on ? ’ 

‘ Because I was desired not,’ said Ethel. 1 You will hear it soon 
enough,’ and she capered a little. 

‘ Let her alone, Flora,’ said Margaret. 1 1 see there is nothing 
wrong.’ 

‘ If she is desired to be silent there is nothing to be said,’ replied 
Flora, sitting down again while Ethel ran away to guard her secret. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 299 

‘ Absurd ! ’ muttered Flora. ‘ 1 cannot imagine why Ethel is 
always making mysteries ! ’ 

1 She cannot help other people having confidence in her,’ said 
Margaret, gently. 

‘ She need not be so important, then,’ said Flora — ‘ always having 
private conferences with papa ! I do not think it is at all fair on 
the rest.’ 

‘ Ethel is a very superior person,’ said Margaret with half a sigh. 

Flora might toss her head, but she attempted no denial in words. 

‘ And,’ continued Margaret, ‘ if papa does find her his best 
companion and friend, we ought to be glad of it.’ 

‘ I do not call it just,’ said Flora. 

‘ I do not think it can be helped,’ said Margaret, ‘ the best must 
be preferred.’ 

‘ As to that, Ethel is often very ridiculous and silly.’ 

‘ She is improving every day ; and you know dear mamma always 
thought her the finest character amongst us.’ 

‘ Then you are ready to be left out, and have your third sister 
always put before you ? ’ 

‘ No, Flora, that is not the case. Neither she nor papa would 
ever be unfair ; but, as she would say herself, what they can’t help, 
they can’t help; and, as she grows older, she must surpass me 
more and more.’ 

‘ And you like it ? ’ 

‘ I like it — when — when I think of papa, and of his dear, noble 
Ethel. I do like it, when I am not selfish.’ 

Margaret turned away her head, but presently looked up again. 

‘ Only, Flora,’ she said, ‘ pray do not say one word of this, on 
any account, to Ethel. She is so happy with papa, and I would 
not, for anything, have her think I feel neglected, or had any 
jealousy.’ 

‘Ah,’ thought Flora, ‘ you can give up sweetly, but you have 
Alan to fall back upon. Now I, who certainly have the best right, 
and a great deal more practical sense — ’ 

Flora took Margaret’s advice, and did not reproach Ethel, for a 
little reflection convinced her that she should make a silly figure in 
so doing, and she did not like altercations. 

It was the same evening that Norman came in from school with 
his hands full of papers, and, with one voice, his father and Ethel 
exclaimed, ‘ You have them ? ’ 

‘ Yes ;’ and he gave a letter to his father, while Blanche, who 
had a very inquisitive pair of eyes, began to read from a paper he 
placed on the table. 

‘Norman Walter, son of Bichard and Margaret May, High- 
street, Doctor of Medicine, December 21st, 18 — Thomas Bamsden.’ 

‘ What is that for, Norman ? ’ and, as he did not attend, she 
called Mary to share her speculations, and spell out the words. 


300 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


4 Ha ! ’ cried Dr. May, 4 this is capital ! Tlie old Do&tor seems 
not to know liow to say enough for you. Have you read it ? ’ 

f No, he only told me he had said something in my favour, and 
wished me all success.’ 

‘Success! ’ cried Mary. 4 Oh, Norman, you are not going to 
sea, too ? ’ 

4 No, no ! ’ interposed Blanche, knowingly — 4 he is going to be 
married. I heard nurse wish her brother success when he was 
going to marry the washerwoman with a red face.’ 

4 No,’ said Mary, 4 people never are married till they are twenty.’ 

4 But I tell you,’ persisted Blanche, 4 people always write like 
this, in a great book in Church, when they are married. I know, 
for we always go into Church with Lucy and nurse, when there is 
a wedding.’ 

4 Well, Norman, I wish you success with the bride you are to 
court,’ said Dr. May — much diverted with the young ladies’ con- 
jectures. 

4 But is it really ? ’ said Mary, making her eyes as round as full 
moons. 

4 Is it really ? ’ repeated Blanche — 4 Oh dear ! is Norman going 
to be married ? I wish it was to be Meta Livers, for then I could 
always ride her dear little white pony.’ 

4 Tell them,’ whispered Norman, a good deal out of countenance, 
as he leant over Ethel, and quitted the room. 

4 Ethel cried, * Now then !’ and looked at her father, while Blanche 
and Mary reiterated inquiries — marriage, and going to sea, being 
the only events that, in their imagination, the world could furnish. 
Going to try for a Balliol scholarship! It was a sad falling off, 
even if they understood what it meant. The Doctor’s explanations 
to Margaret had a tone of apology for having kept her in ignorance, 
and Flora said few words, but felt herself injured ; she had nearly 
gone to Mrs. Hoxton that afternoon, and how strange it would have 
been if anything had been said to her of her own brother’s projects, 
when she was in ignorance. 

Ethel slipped away to her brother, who was in his own room, 
surrounded with books, flushed and anxious, and trying to glance 
over each subject on which he felt himself weak. 

4 I shall fail ! I know I shall ! ’ was his exclamation. 4 1 wish 
I had never thought of it ! ’ 

4 What ? did Dr. Hoxton think you not likely to succeed ? ’ cried 
Ethel, in consternation. 

4 Oh ! he said I was certain, but what is that ? We Stoneborough 
men only compare ourselves with each other. I shall break down 
to a certainty, and my father will be disappointed.’ 

4 You will do your best? ’ 

4 1 don’t know that. My best will all go away when it comes tc 
die point.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


301 


4 Surely not. It did not go away last time you were examined, 
snd why should it now ? ’ 

‘ I tell you, Ethel, you know nothing about it. I have not got 
up half what I meant to have done. Here, do take this book — try 
me whether I know this properly.’ 

So they went on, Ethel doing her best to help and encourage, 
and Norman in an excited state of restless despair, which drove 
away half his senses and recollection, and his ideas of the superior 
powers of public school-boys magnifying every moment. They 
were summoned down stairs to prayers, but went up again at once, 
and more than an hour subsequently, when their father paid one of 
his domiciliary visits, there they still were, with their Latin and 
Greek spread out, Norman trying to strengthen all doubtful points, 
but, in a desperate desultory manner, that only confused him more 
and more, till he was obliged to lay his head down on the table, 
shut his eyes, and run his fingers through his hair, before he could 
recollect the simplest matter ; his renderings alternated with groans, 
and, cold as was the room, his cheeks and brows were flushed and 
burning. 

The doctor checked all this, by saying, gravely and sternly, 
1 This is not right, Norman. Where are all your resolutions ? ’ 

4 I shall never do it. I ought never to have thought of it ! I 
shall never succeed ! ’ 

4 What, if you do not ? ’ said Dr. May, laying his hand on his 
shoulder. 

4 What ! why Tom’s chance lost — you will all be mortified,’ said 
Norman, hesitating in some confusion. 

4 1 will take care of Tom,’ said Dr. May. 

4 And he will have been foiled ! ’ said Ethel. 

‘ If he is ? ’ 

The boy and girl were both silent. 

4 Are you striving for mere victory’s sake, Norman ? ’ continued 
nis father. 

£ I thought not,’ murmured Norman. 

4 Successful or not, you will have done your utmost for us. You 
would not lose one jot of affection, or esteem, and Tom shall not 
suffer. Is it worth this agony ? ’ 

4 No, it is foolisji,’ said Norman, with trembling voice, almost as 
if he could have burst into tears. He was quite unnerved by the 
anxiety and toil with which he had overtasked himself, beyond his 
father’s knowledge. 

4 Oh ! papa ! ’ pleaded Ethel, who could not bear to see him 
pained. 

4 It is foolish,’ continued Dr. May, who felt it was the moment 
for bracing severity. 4 It is rendering you unmanly. It is wrong. 

Again Ethel made an exclamation of entreaty. 


302 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 It is wrong, I know,’ repeated Norman ; ‘ but you don’t know 
what it is to get into the spirit of the thing.’ 

‘ Do you think I do not ? ’ said the Doctor ; ‘ I can tell exactly 
what you feel now. If I had not been an idle dog, I should have 
gone through it all many more times.’ 

1 What shall I do ?’ asked Norman, in a worn-out voice. 

I Put all this out of your mind, sleep quietly, and don’t open 
another book.’ 

Norman moved his head, as if sleep were beyond his power. 

I I will read you something to calm your tone,’ said Dr. May, and 
he took up a Prayer-Book. ‘ “ Know ye not, that they which run 
in a race, run all, but one receiveth the prize ? So run that ye may 
obtain. And every man that striveth for the mastery, is temperate 
in all things.’ Now they do it to obtain a corruptible crown, but 
we an incorruptible.” And, Norman, that is not the struggle where 
the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong ; nor the 
contest, where the conqueror only wins vanity and vexation of spirit.’* 

Norman had cast down his eyes, and hardly made answer, but 
the words had evidently taken effect. The Doctor only further 
cade him good night, with a whispered blessing, and, taking Ethel 
by the hand, drew her away. 

When they met the next morning, the excitement had passed 
from Norman’s manner, but he looked dejected and resigned. He 
had made up his mind to lose, and was not grateful for good wishes ; 
he ought never to have thought, he said, of competing with men 
from public-schools, and he knew his return of love of vain-glory 
deserved that he should fail. However, he was now calm enough 
not to be likely to do himself injustice by nervousness, and Mar- 
garet had hopes that Bichard’s steady equable mind, would have a 
salutary influence. So, commending Tom’s lessons to Ethel, and 
hearing, but not marking, countless messages to Bichard, he set 
forth upon his emprise , while his anxiety seemed to remain as a 
legacy for those at home. 

Poor Dr. May confessed that his practice by no means agreed 
with his precept, for he could think of nothing else, and was almost 
as bad as Norman, in his certainty that the boy would fail from 
mere nervousness. Margaret was the better companion for him 
now, attaching less intensity of interest to Norman’s success, than 
did Ethel ; she was the more able to compose him, and cheer his 
hopes. 


the daisy chain. 


303 


CHAPTER XXX. 


1 "Weary soul, and burdened sore, 

Labouring with thy secret load, 

Fear not all thy griefs to pour 
In this heart, love’s true abode.’ 

Lyba Innocentium. 

Tea had just been brought in on the eighth evening from Norman’s 
departure, when there was a ring at the bell. There was a start, 
and look of expectation. ‘ Only a patient,’ said the Doctor ; but it 
surely was not for that reason that he rose with so much alacrity and 
opened the door, nor was 1 Well, old fellow ? ’ the greeting for his 
patients — so everybody sprang after him, and beheld something tall 
taking off a coat, while the voice said, ‘ I have got it.’ 

The mass of children rushed back to Margaret, screaming, ‘ lie 
has got it ! ’ and then Aubrey trotted out into the hall again to see 
what Norman had got. 

1 A happy face at least,’ said Margaret, as he came to her. And 
that was not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shone out 
upon everyone in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy 
exclamation, query and answer — the only tone of regret when Mary 
spoke of Harry, and all at once took up the strain — how glad poor 
Harry would be. As to the examination, that had been much less 
difficult than Norman had expected ; in fact, he said, it was lucky 
for him that the very subjects had been chosen in which he was most 
up — luck which, as the Doctor could not help observing, generally 
did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy with Rich- 
ard ; the kind, wise, elder brother had done exactly what was best 
for him in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings, 
and exulted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter, 
dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had out- 
stripped, and the idea that every one had conceived of his talent. 
1 Indeed,’ wrote Richard, 1 1 fancy the men had never believed that 
I could have a clever brother I am glad they have seen what Nor- 
man can do.’ 

Margaret could not help reading this aloud, and it made Norman 
blush with the compunction that Richard’s unselfish pride in him 
always excited. He had much to tell of his ecstasy with Oxford. 
Stoneborough Minster had been a training in appreciation of its 
hoary beauty, but the essentially prosaic Richard had never pre- 
pared him for the impression that the Reverend old University made 
on him, and he was already, heart and soul, one of her most loyal 
and loving sons, speaking of his College and of the whole Univer- 
sity as one who had a right of property in them, and looking, all 
the time, not elated, but contented, as if he had found his sphere 
and was satisfied. He had seen Cheviot, too, and had been very 


304 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


h a PPy the renewed friendship ; and had been claimed as a cousin 
by a Balliol man, a certain Norman Ogilvie, a name well known 
among the Mays. ‘And how has Tom been getting on ? ’ he asked 
when he returned to home affairs. 

‘ Oh ! I don’t know,’ said Ethel. ‘ He will not have my help.' 

‘ Not let you help him ! ’ exclaimed Norman. 

‘ No. He says he wants no girls,’ said Ethel, laughing. 

‘ Foolish fellow ! ’ said Norman. ‘ I wonder what sort of work 
he has made.’ 

‘ Very funny, I should think,’ said Ethel, ‘judging by the verses 
I could see.’ 

The little pale rough-haired Tom, in his perpetual coating of dust, 
softly crept into the room, as .f he only wanted to elude observa- 
tion ; but Mary and Blanche were at once vociferating their news 
in his ears, though with little encouragement — he only shook them 
off abruptly, and would not answer when they required him to be 
glad. 

Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was 
making for his hiding-place behind Dr. May’s arm-chair. 

1 Come, August, how have things gone on ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! I don’t know.’ 

‘ What’s your place ? ’ 

‘ Thirteenth ! ’ muttered Tom in his throat, and well he might, 
for two or three voices cried out that was too bad, and that it was 
all his own fault, for not accepting Ethel’s help. He took little 
heed, but crept to his corner without another word, and Mary knew 
she should be thumped, if she should torment him there. 

Norman left him alone, but the coldness of the little brother for 
whom he had worked, gave a greater chill to his pleasure than he 
could have supposed possible. He would rather have had some 
cordiality on Tom’s part, than all the congratulations that met him 
the next day. 

He could not rest contented while Tom continued to shrink from 
him, and he was the more uneasy when, on Saturday morning, no 
calls from Mary availed to find the little boy, and bring him to the 
usual reading and Catechism. 

Margaret decided that they must begin without him, and poor 
Mary’s verse was read, in consequence, with a most dolorous tone. 
As soon as the books were shut, she ran off, and a few words passed 
among the elder ones about the truant — Flora opining that the 
Andersons had led him away ; Ethel suggesting that his gloom must 
arise from his not being well ; and Margaret looking wistfully at 
Norman, and saying she feared they had judged much amiss last 
spring. 

Norman heard in silence, and walked thoughtfully into the 
garden. Presently he caught Mary’s voice in expostulation : 1 How 
could you not come to read ! ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


305 


Girls’ work ! ’ growled another voice, out of sight 
But Norman, and Bichard, and Harry, always come to the 
reading. Everybody ought.’ 

Norman, who was going round the shrubs that concealed the 
speakers from him, here lost their voices, but, as he emerged in 
front of the old tool-house, he heard a little scream from Mary, and, 
at the same moment, she darted back, and fell over a heap of cab- 
bage-stumps in front of the old tool-house. It was no small surprise 
to her to be raised by him, and tenderly asked whether she were hurt. 
She was not hurt, but she could not speak without crying, and when 
Norman begged to hear what was the matter, and where Tom was, 
she would only plead for him — that he did not intend to hurt her, 
and that she had been teazing him. What had he done to frighten 
her ? Oh ! he had only run at her with a hoe, because she was 
troublesome; she did not mind it, and Norman must not — and she 
clung to him as if to keep him back, while he pursued his researches 
in the tool-house, where, nearly concealed by a great bushel-basket, 
lurked Master Thomas, crouching down, with a volume of Gil Bias 
in his hand. 

‘ You here ! Tom ! What have you hidden yourself here for ? 
What can make you so savage to Mary ? ’ 

1 She should not bother me,’ said Tom, sulkily. 

Norman sent Mary away, pacifying her by promises that he 
would not revenge her quarrel upon Tom, and then, turning the 
basket upside down, and perching himself astride on it, he began : 
‘ That is the kindest, most forgiving little sister I ever did see. 
What possesses you to treat her so ill ? ’ 

‘ I wasn’t going to hurt her.’ 

* But why drive her away ? Why don’t you come to read ? ’ 
No answer ; and Norman, for a moment, felt as if Tom were really 
hopelessly ill-conditioned and sullen, but he persevered in restraining 
his desire to cuff the ill-humour out of him, and continued : 1 Come ! 
there’s something wrong, and you will never be better till it is out. 
Tell me — don’t be afraid. Those fellows have been at you again ? ’ 

He took Tom by the arm to draw him nearer, but a cry and start 
of pain were the result. 1 So they have licked you ? Eh ? What 
have they been doing ? ’ 

‘ They said they would spiflicate me if I told ! ’ sighed Tom. 

1 They shall never do anything to you — ’ and by-and-by, a sob- 
ping confession was drawn forth, muttered at intervals, as low as 
if Tom expected the strings of onions to hear and betray him to his 
foes. Looking on him as a deserter, these town-boys had taken ad- 
vantage of his brother’s absence, to heap on him every misery they 
could inflict. There had been a wager between Edward Anderson 
and Sam Axworthy as to what Tom could be made to do, and his 


306 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


that had been enforced on his conscience. On Sunday, they had 
profited by the absence of their Dux, to have a jollification at a little 
public-house, not far from the playing-fields; and here had Tom 
been dragged in, forced to partake with them, and frightened with 
threats that he had treated them all, and was liable to pay the whole 
bill, which, of course, he firmly believed, as well as that he should 
be at least half-murdered if he gave his father any suspicion that 
the whole had not been consumed by himself. Now, though poor 
Toil’s conscience had lost many scruples during the last spring, the 
offence, into which he had been forced, was too heinous to a child 
brought up as he had been, to be palliated even in his own eyes. 
The profanation of Sunday, and the carousal in a public-house, had 
combined to fill him with a sense of shame and degradation, which 
was the real cause that he felt himself unworthy to come and read 
with his sisters. His grief and misery were extreme, and Norman’s 
indignation was such as could find no utterance. He sat silent,, 
quivering with anger, and clenching his fingers over the handle of 
the hoe. 

‘ I knew it ! ’ sighed Tom. 1 None of you will ever speak to me 
again ! 5 

‘ You ! Why, August, man, I have better hopes of you than 
ever. You are more really sorry now than ever you were before.’ 

‘ I had never been at the Green Man before,’ said poor Tom, 
feeling his future life stained. 

1 You never will again ! ’ 

‘ When you are gone — ’ and the poor victim’s voice died away. 

I Tom, you will not stay after me. It is settled that when I go 
to Balliol, you leave Stoneborough, and go to Mr. Wilmot as pupil. 
Those scamps shall never have you in their clutches again.’ 

It did not produce the ecstasy Norman had expected. The boy 
still sat on the ground, staring at his brother, as if the good news 
hardly penetrated the gloom ; and, after a disappointing silence, 
recurred to the most immediate cause of distress : 1 Eight shillings 
and tenpence half-penny ! Norman, if you would only lend it to 
me, you shall have all my tin till I have made it up — sixpence a 
week, and half-a-crown on New Year’s Day.’ 

I I am not going to pay Mr. Axworthy’s reckoning,’ said Nor- 
man, rather angrily. 1 You will never be better till you have told 
my father the whole.’ 

1 Do you think they will send in the bill to my father ? ’ asked 
Tom, in alarm. 

4 No, indeed ! that is the last thing they will do,’ said Norman ; 
but I would not have you come to him only for such a sneaking 
reason.’ 

‘ But the girls would hear it. Oh ! if I thought Mary and 
Margaret would ever hear it — Norman, I can’t — ’ 

Norman assured him that there was not the slightest reason 


THE DAIS? CHAIN. 


307 


that these passages should ever come to the knowledge of his sisters 
Tom was excessively afraid of his father, hut he could not well be 
more wretched than he was already ; and he was brought to assent 
when Norman showed him that he had never been happy since the 
affair of the blotting-paper, when his father’s looks and tones had 
become objects of dread in his guilty conscience. Was not the only 
means of recovering a place in papa’s esteem to treat him with con- 
fidence ? 

Tom answered not, and would only shudder when his brother 
took upon him to declare that free confession would gain pardon 
even for the doings at the Green Man. 

Tom had grown stupified and passive, and his sole dependence 
. was on Norman, so, at last, he made no opposition when his brother 
offered to conduct him to his father and speak for him. The danger 
now was that Dr. May should not be forthcoming, and the elder 
brother was as much relieved, as the younger was dismayed, to see, 
through the drawing-room window, that he was standing beside 
Margaret. 

I Papa, can you come and speak to me,’ said Norman, 1 at the 
door ? ’ 

‘Coming! What now?’ said the Doctor, entering the hall. 
‘ What, Tom, my boy, what is it ? ’ as he saw the poor child, white, 
cold, almost sick with apprehension, with every pulse throbbing, and 
looking positively ill. He took the chilly, damp hand, which shook 
nervously, and would fain have withdrawn itself. 

* Come, my dear, let us see what is amiss ; ’ and before Tom knew 
what he was doing, he had seated him on his knee, in the arm-chair 
in the study, and was feeling his pulse. ‘ There, rest ytfur head ! 
Has it not been aching all day ? 5 

I I do not think he is ill,’ said Norman ; 1 but there is something 
he thinks I had better tell you.’ 

Tom would fain have been on his feet, yet the support of that 
shoulder was inexpressibly comfortable to his aching temples, and 
he could not but wait for the shock of being roughly shaken and put 
down. So, as his brother related what had occurred, he crouched 
and trembled more and more on his father’s breast, till, to his sur- 
prise, he found the other arm passed round him in support, draw- 
ing him more tenderly close. 

1 My poor little fellow ! ’ said Dr. May, trying to look into the 
drooping face, 1 1 grieve to have exposed you to such usage as this ! 
I little thought it of Stoneborough fellows ! ’ 

1 He is very sorry,’ said Norman, much distressed by the con- 
dition of the culprit. 

* I see it — I see it plainly,’ said Dr. May. ‘ Tommy, my boy 
why should you tremble when you are with me ? ’ 

1 He has been in great dread of your being displeased.’ 

1 My boy, do you not know how I forgive you ? ’ 


308 


THE DAIS Y CHAIN. 


Tom clung round liis neck, as if to steady himself. ‘ Oh ! papa 
I thought you would never — ’ 

‘Nay, you need never have thought so, my hoy? What have 
I done that you should fear me ? ’ 

Tom did not speak, hut nestled up to him with more confidence ; 
‘There! that’s better ! Poor child! what he must have suffered! 
He was not fit for the place ! I had thought him looking ill. 
Little did I guess the cause.’ 

‘ He says his head has ached ever since Sunday,’ said Norman; 

‘ and I believe he has hardly eaten or slept properly since,’ 

‘ He shall never he under their power again ! Thanks to you, 
Norman. Do you hear that, Tommy ? ’ 

The answer was hardly audible. The little hoy was already 
almost asleep, worn out with all he had undergone. Norman began 
to clear the sofa, that they might lay him down, hut his father 
would not hear of disturbing him, and, sending Norman away, sat 
still for mpre than an hour, until the child slowly awoke, and 
scarcely recalling what had happened, stood up between his father’s 
knees, rubbing his eyes, and looking bewildered. 

‘ You are better now, my boy?’ 

‘ I thought you would be very angry,’ slowly murmured Tom, 
as the past returned on him. 

‘ Never, while you are sorry for your faults, and own them freely.’ 

‘ I’m glad I did,’ said the boy, still half asleep. ‘ I did not 
know you would be so kind.’ 

‘ Ah ! Tom, I fear it was as much my fault as yours, that you 
did not know it. But, my dear, there is a pardon that can give 
you bettc# peace than mine.’ 

‘ I think,’ muttered Tom, looking down — ‘ I think I could say 
my prayers again now, if — ’ 

‘ If what, my dear ? ’ 

‘ If you would help me, as mamma used — ’ 

There could be but one response to this speech. 

Tom was still giddy and unwell, his whole frame affected by the 
troubles of the last week, and Dr. May arranged him on the sofa, 
and desired him to be quiet, offering to send Mary to be his com- 
panion. Tom was languidly pleased, but renewed his entreaty, that 
his confession might be a secret from his sisters. Dr. May pro- 
mised, and Mary, quite satisfied at being taken into favour, asked 
no questions, but spent the rest of the morning in playing at draughts 
with him, and, in having inflicted on her the history of the Bloody 
Fire King’s Ghost — a work of Tom’s imagination, which he was 
wont to extemporize, to the extreme terror of much enduring Mary. 

When Dr. May had called Mary, he next summoned Norman, 
who found him in the hall, putting on his hat, and looking very stern 
and determined. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 309 

1 Norman ! ’ said lie, hastily, ‘ don’t say a word — It must be 
done — Hoxton must hear of this.’ 

Norman’s face expressed utter consternation. 

‘ It is not your doing. It is no concern of yours,’ said Dr. May, 
walking impetuously into the garden. ‘ I find my boy ill, broken 
down, shattered — it is the usage of this crew of fellows — what right 
have I to conceal it — leave other people’s sons to be so served ? ’ 

‘ I believe they did so to Tom out of ill-will to me,’ said Nor- 
man, 1 and because they thought he had ratted.’ 

‘ Hush ! don’t argue against it,’ said Dr. May, almost petulantly. 

1 1 have stood a great deal to oblige you, but I cannot stand this. 
When it is a matter of corruption, base cruelty — no, Norman, it is 
not right — not another word ! ’ 

Norman’s words had not been many, but he felt a conviction 
that, in spite of the dismay and pain to himself, Dr. May ought to 
meet with submission to his judgment, and he acquiesced by silence. 

1 Don’t you see,’ continued the Doctor; 1 if they act thus, when 
your back is turned, what is to happen next half? ’Tis not for 
Tom’s sake, but how could we justify it to ourselves, to expose 
other boys to this usage ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Norman, not without a sigh. ‘ I suppose it must be.’ 

‘ That is right,’ said Dr. May, as if much relieved. 1 1 knew you 
must see it in that light. I do not mean to abuse your confidence.’ 

‘ No, indeed,’ answered Norman, warmly. 

I But you see yourself, that where the welfare of so many is at 
stake, it would be wickedness — yes, wickedness to be silent. Could 
I see that little fellow prostrated, trembling in my arms, and think 
of those scamps inflicting the same on other helpless children — away 
from their homes ! ’ 

I I see, I see! ’ said Norman, carried along by the indignation 
and tenderness that agitated his father’s voice in his vehemence — 
4 it is the only thing to be done.’ 

c It would be sharing the guilt to hide it,’ said Dr. May. 

4 Very well,’ said Norman, still reluctantly. 4 What do you 
wish me to do ? You see, as Dux, I know nothing about it. It 
happened while I was^way.’ 

‘ True, true,’ said his father. 1 You have learnt it as brother 
not as senior boy. Yes, we had better have you out of the matter. 
It is I who complain of their usage of my son.’ 

1 Thank you,’ said Norman, with gratitude. 

I You have not told me the names of these fellows. No, I had 
best not know them.’ 

I I think it might make a difference,’ hesitated Norman. 

4 No, no, I will not hear them. It ought to make none. The 
faot is the same, be they who they may.’ 

The Doctor let himself out at the garden gate, and strode off at 
a rapid pace, conscious perhaps, in secret, that if he did not at once 


310 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


yield to the impulse of resentment, good-nature would overpowci 
the sense of justice. His son returned to the house with a heavy 
sigh, yet honouring the generosity that had respected his scruples 
when merely his own worldly loss was involved, but set them aside 
when the good of others was concerned. By-and-by Dr. May re 
appeared. The headmaster had been thoroughly roused to anger, 
and had begged at once to examine May junior, for whom his father 
was now come. 

Tom was quite unprepared for such formidable consequences of 
his confession, and began by piteous tears and sobs, and when these 
had, with some difficulty, been pacified, he proved to be really so 
unwell and exhausted, that his father could not take him to Minster 
street, and was obliged to leave him to his brother’s keeping, while 
he returned to the school. 

Upon this, Dr. Hoxton came himself, and the sisters were ex- 
tremely excited and alarmed by the intelligence that he was in the 
study with papa and Tom. 

Then away went the gentlemen ; and Mary was again called to 
comfort Tom, who, broken down into the mere longing for sympathy, 
sobbed out all his troubles to her, while her eyes expanded more 
and more in horror, and her soft heart giving way, she cried quite 
as pitifully, and a great deal more loudly ; and so the other sisters 
learnt the whole, and Margaret was ready for her father, when he 
came in, in the evening, harassed and sorrowful. His anger was 
all gone now, and he was excessively grieved at finding that the 
ringleaders, Samuel Axworthy and Edward Anderson, could, in 
Dr. Hoxton’s opinion, receive no sentence but expulsion, which was 
to be pronounced on them on Monday. 

Sam Axworthy was the son of a low, uneducated man, and his 
best chance had been the going to this school; but he was of a 
surly, obstinate temper, and showed so little compunction that even 
such superabundant kindness as Dr. May’s, could not find compas- 
sion for him ; especially since it had appeared that Tom had been by 
no means the only victim, and that he had often been the promoter 
of the like mal-practices, which many boys were relieved to be 
forced to expose. 

For Edward Anderson, however, or rather for his mother, Dr. 
May was very sorry, and had even interceded for his pardon ; but 
Dr. Hoxton, though slow to be roused, was far less placable than 
the other Doctor, and would not hear of anything but the most 
rigorous justice. 

‘ Poor Mrs. Anderson, with her pride in her children ! ’ Flora 
spoke it with a shade of contemptuous pity, but it made her father 
groan. 

‘ I shall never be able to look in her face again ! I shall never 
see that boy without feeling that I have ruined him.’ 

1 He needed nobody to do that for him,’ said Flora. 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


311 


4 With every disadvantage ! ’ continued Dr. May; 4 unable even 
to remember his father ! Why could I not be more patient and 
forbearing ? ’ 

4 Oh ! papa ! ’ was the general cry — Norman’s voice giving de- 
cision to the sisters’ exclamation. 

4 Perhaps,’ said Margaret, 4 the shock may be the best thing for 
him.’ 

4 Right, Margaret,’ said her father. 4 Sometimes such a thing 
is the first that shows what a course of evil really is.’ 

4 They are an affectionate family too,’ said Margaret, 4 and his 
mother’s grief may have an effect on him.’ 

4 If she does not treat him as an injured hero,’ said Flora ; 
4 besides, I see no reason for regret. These are but two, and the 
school is not to be sacrificed to them.’ 

4 Yes,’ said Norman; 4 1 believe that Ashe will be able to keep 
much better order without Axworthy. It is much better as it is, 
but Harry will be very sorry to hear it, and I wish this half was 
over.’ 

Poor Mrs. Anderson ! her shower of notes rent the heart of the 
one Doctor, but were tossed carelessly aside by the other. On 
that Sunday, Norman held various conversations with his probable 
successor, Ashe, a gentle, well-disposed boy, hitherto in much dread 
of the post of authority, but owning, that, in Axworthy’s absence, 
the task would be comparatively easy, and that Anderson would 
probably originate far less mischief. 

Edward Anderson himself fell in Norman’s way in the street, 
and was shrinking aside, when a word, of not unfriendly greeting, 
caused him to quicken his steps, and say, hesitatingly, 4 1 say, how 
is August ? ’ 

4 Better, thank you ; he will be all right in a day or two.’ 

4 I say, we would not have bullied him so, if he had not been in 
such a fright at nothing.’ 

4 1 dare say not. ’ 

4 1 did not mean it all, but that sort of thing makes a fellow go 
on,’ continued Edward, hanging down his head, very sorrowful and 
downcast. 

4 If it had only been fair bullying ; but to take him to that place 
— to teach him falsehood — ’ said Norman. 

Edward’s eyes were full of tears ; he almost owned the whole. 
He had not thought of such things, and then Axworthy — It was 
more evident from manner, than words, that the boy did repent, and 
was greatly overcome both by his own disgrace, and his mother’s 
distress, wishing earnestly to redeem his character, and declaring, 
from the bottom of his heart, that he would avoid his former 
offences. He was emboldened at last to say, with hesitation, 4 Could 
not you speak to Doctor Hoxton for me ? ’ 

4 My father has said all he could in your behalf.’ 


m 


THE DAISY CIIAIN. 


Edward’s eye glanced towards Norman in wonder, as he recol- 
lected that the Mays must know that a word from him would have 
saved Norman from unjust punishment, and the loss of the scholar- 
ship, and he said, ‘ good night,’ and turned aside to his own home, 
with a heavy sigh. 

Norman took another turn, looked up at the sky, twisted his 
hands together in perplexity, mumbled something about hating to 
dc a thing when it was all for no use, and then marched off towards 
Minster-street, with a pace like his father’s the day before. 

When he came forth again from Dr. Hoxton’s study, he did not 
believe that his intercession had produced the least effect, and there 
was a sense of vexation at the position which he had assumed. He 
went home, and said nothing on the subject ; but when, on Monday, 
the school was assembled, and the judgment announced, it was 
Axworthy alone whose friends had been advised to remove him. 

Anderson received a severe punishment, as did all those who 
had shared in the revel at the Green Man. Even Tom, and another 
little boy, who had been likewise drawn in, were obliged to stay 
within narrow bounds, and to learn heavy impositions ; and a stern 
reprimand and exhortation were given to the school collectively. 
Anderson, who had seen from the window that turn towards Min- 
ster-street, drew his own conclusions, and was not insensible to the 
generosity that had surpassed his hopes, though to his faltering 
attempt at thanks, Norman replied that he did not believe it wa3 
owing to him, and never exposed himself to Flora’s wonder, by 
declaring at home what he had done. 

So the last weeks of the half-year passed away with the boys in 
a subdued, but hopeful manner, and the reformation, under Norman’s 
auspices, progressed so well, that Ashe might fairly expect to reap 
the benefit of the discipline, established at so much cost. 

Mr. Wilmot had looked on, and given his help, but he was pre- 
paring to leave Stoneborough, and there was great concern at the 
parting with such a friend. Ethel, especially, mourned the loss to 
Cocksmoor, and, for though hers had been the executive part, his 
had been the head, and he was almost equally grieved to go from 
the newly-begun work. 

Margaret lamented the loss of her kind counsellor, and the ready 
hearer of her anxieties for the children. Writing could ill supply 
the place of their conversations, and she feared likewise that her 
father would feel the want of his companionship. The promise of 
visits, and the intercourse kept up by Tom’s passing to and fro, was 
the best consolation. 

Poor Margaret had begun to flag, both in strength and spirits 
as winter approached, but there came a revival in the shape of ‘ Ship 
Letters ! ’ Alan wrote cheerfully and graphically, with excellent 
accounts of Harry, who, on his side, sent very joyous and charac- 
teristic despatches, only wishing that he could present Mary with 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


313 


ah the monkeys and parrots he had seen at Rio, as well as the little 
ruby-crested humming-birds, that always reminded him of Miss 
Rivers. 

W ittf the Christmas holidays, Hector Ernescliffe came from Eton, 
as to a home, and was received by Margaret as a sort of especial 
charge. It was pretty to see how he turned to her as something 
peculiarly his own, and would sit on a footstool by her, letting 
himself be drawn into confidence, and dwelling on his brother’s past 
doings, and on future schemes for Maplewood. For the rest, he 
restored to the house the atmosphere of boy, which had somewhat 
departed with Harry. Mary, who had begun to be tamed down, 
ran more wild than ever, to the utter despair of Miss Winter ; and 
Tom, now that his connexion with the Whichcote foundation was 
over, and he was no more cowed by the sight of his tyrants, came 
out in a new light. He put on his boy-nature, rioted like the rest, 
acquired colour in his cheeks, divested his jacket of perpetual dust, 
had his hair cut, brushed up a crest on his head, and ran about no 
longer a little abject, but a merry lad. 

Ethel said it was a change from Horrid-locks to Harfagre ; Mar- 
garet said little, but, like her father, she blessed Norman in her heart 
for having given back the boy to his father’s confidence, and saved 
him so far from the terrible course of deceit and corruption. She 
could not much take to heart the mad exploits of the so-called boys, 
even though she spent three hours in heart-beatings on Christmas 
Eve, when Hector, Mary, Tom, Blanche, and the dog Toby, were 
lost the whole day. However they did come back at six o’clock, 
having been deluded by an old myth of George Larkins, into start- 
ing for a common, three miles beyotav. Cocksmoor, in search of 
mistletoe, with scarlet berries, and yellow holly, with leaves like a 
porcupine ! Failing these wonders, they had been contenting them- 
selves with scarlet holly, in the Drydale plantations, when a rough 
voice exclaimed, 1 Who gave you leave to take that ? ’ whereupon 
Tom had plunged into a thicket, and nearly 1 scratched out both his 
eyes ; ’ but Hector boldly standing his ground, with Blanche in his 
hand, the woodman discovered that here was the Miss Mary, of 
whom his little girls talked so much, thereupon cut down the 
choicest boughs, and promised to leave a full supply at Dr. May’s. 
Margaret could have been angry at the taking the young ladies on 
so mad a scheme, but then Mary was so happy, and as to Hector, 
how scold him, when he had lifted Blanche over every ditch, and 
had carried her home one mile on his back, and another, Queen’s 
cushion fashion, between him and Mary ? 

Flora, meanwhile, went her own way. The desire of compensating 
for what had passed with Norman, led to great civilities from Dr. 
and Mrs. Iloxton, which nobody was at liberty to receive except 
Flora. Pretty, graceful and pleasing, she was a valuable compan- 
ion to a gentle little, inane lady, with more time and money than 


314 


TITE DAISY CHAIN. 


she knew what to do with ; and Mrs. Hoxton, who was of a superior 
grade to the Stoneborough ladies in general, was such a chaperon 
as Flora was glad to secure. Dr. May’s old loyal feelings could 
not help regarding her notice of his daughter as a favour and kind- 
ness, and Margare-t could find no tangible objections, nor any pre- 
cedent from her mother’s conduct, even had anyone had the power 
to interfere with one so quiet, reasonable and determined as Flora. 

So the intimacy became closer and closer, and as the winter 
passed on, Flora gradually became established as the dear friend and 
assistant, without whom Mrs. Hoxton could give no party. Further, 
Flora took the grand step of setting up a copperplate and cards of 
‘ Miss Flora May,’ went out frequently on morning calls with Mrs. 
Hoxton and her bay horses, and when Dr. May refused his share of 
invitations to dinner with the neighbours in the country, Flora gen* 
erally found that she could go under the Hoxtons’ guardianship. 


END OF VCL, I. 




THE RETURN. 


r. IT". 






THE DAISY CHAIN; 

OR, 


A. S I? I 


RATIONS. 


% Jamils Charade. 

% 


BY THE 

AUTHOR OF “THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE,” “ HEARTSEASE, n 

ETC. 


‘ To the highest room, 

Earth’s lowliest flowers our Lord recei ves : 

Close to His heart a place lie gives, 

Where they shall ever bloom.’ 

. / 


VOL. II. 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

5 4 9 & 551. BROAD WAY. 

1875. 























. : 'Ai <><. i : i - 

H/ > V 


THE DAISY CHAIN 


CHAPTER J. 

‘ Now have I then eke this condicion, 

That above all the flouris in the mede ; 

Then love I most these flouris white and rede, 

Soche that men caUin daisies in our town. 

To them have I so great affection, 

As I said erst, when comin is the Maie, 

That in my bed there dawith me no daie 
That I am up and walking in the mede, 

To see this floure agenst the sunne sprede.’ 

Chaucer. 

£ That is better ! ’ said Margaret, contemplating a butterfly of the 
penwiper class, whose constitution her dextrous needle had been 
rendering less ricketty than Blanche had left it. 

Margaret still lay on the sofa, and her complexion had assumed 
the dead white of habitual ill-health. There was more languor of 
manner, and her countenance, when at rest, and not under the eye 
of her father, had a sadness of expression, as if any hopes, that she 
might once have entertained, were fading away. The years of 
Alan Ernesclifife’s absence that had elapsed had rather taken from 
her powers than added to them. Nevertheless, the habit of cheer- 
fulness and sympathy had not deserted her, and it was with a some- 
what amused glance that she turned towards Ethel, as she heard 
her answer by a sigh. 

These years had dealt more kindly with Etheldred’s outward 
appearance. They had rounded her angles, softened her features, 
and tinged her cheeks with a touch of red, that took ofi: from the 
surrounding sallowness. She held herself better, had learnt to 
keep her hair in order, and the more womanly dress, plain though 
it was, improved her figure more than could have been hoped in 
the days of her lank, gawky girlhood. No one could call her 
pretty, but her countenance had something more than ever pleasing 
in the animated and thoughtful expression on those marked fea- 
tures. She was sitting near the window, with a book, a dictionary 
and pencil, as she replied to Margaret, with the sigh that made her 
sister smile. 

1 Poor Ethel ! I condole with you.’ 

4 And I wonder at you ! ’ said Ethel, 1 especially as Flora and 


4 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Mrs. Hoxton say it is all for your sake; ’ then, nettled by Mai' 
garet’s laugh, ‘ such a nice occupation for her, poor thing, as if you 
were Mrs. Hoxton, and had no resource but fancy-work.’ 

‘ You know I am base enough to be so amused,’ said Margaret ; 

‘ but, seriously, Ethel dear, I cannot bear to see you so much hurt 
by it. I did not know you were really grieved.’ 

‘ Grieved ! I am ashamed — sickened ! ’ cried Ethel, vehemently. 

‘ Poor Cocksmoor ! As soon as anything is done there, Flora must 
needs go about implying that we have set some grand work in hand, 
and want only means — ’ 

‘ Stop, Ethel; Flora does not boast.’ 

‘ No, she does not boast. I wish she did ! That would be 
straightforward and simple ; but she has too good taste for that — 
so she does worse — she tells a little, and makes that go a long way, 
as if she were keeping back a great deal ! You don’t know how 
furious it makes me ! ’ 

‘Ethel!’ 

‘ So,’ said Ethel, disregarding, ‘ she stirs up all Stoneborough 
to hear what the Miss Mays are doing at Cocksmoor. So the 
Ladies’ Committee must needs have their finger in ! Much they 
cared for the place when it was wild and neglected ! Hut they go 
to inspect Cherry and her school — Mrs. Ledwich and all — and, 
back they come, shocked — no system, no order, the mistress un- 
trained, the school too small, with no apparatus ! They all run 
about in despair, as if we had ever asked them to help us. And so 
Mrs. Hoxton, who cares for poor children no more than for puppy- 
dogs, but who can’t live without useless work, and has filled her 
house as full of it as it can hold, devises a bazaar — a field for her 
trumpery, and a show-off for all the young ladies ; and Flora treats 
it like an inspiration! Off they trot, to the old Assembly Rooms. 
I trusted that the smallness of them would have knocked it on the 
head; but, still worse, Flora’s talking of it makes Mr. Rivers 
think it our pet scheme ; so, what does he do but offer his park, 
and so we are to have a regular fancy fair, and Cocksmoor school 
will be founded in vanity and frivolity ! But, I believe you like it 1 ’ 

‘ I am not sure of my own feeling,’ said Margaret. ‘ It has 
been settled without our interposition, and I have never been able 
to talk it over calmly with you. Papa does not seem to disap- 
prove. 

‘ No,’ said Ethel. ‘ He will only laugh, and say it will spare 
him a great many of Mrs. Hoxton’s nervous attacks. He thinks of 
it nearly as I do, at the bottom, but I cannot get him to stop it, nor 
even to say he does not wish Flora to sell.’ 

‘ I did not understand that you really had such strong objec- 
tions,’ said Margaret. ‘ I thought it was only as a piece of folly, 
and — ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


5 


‘ And interference with my Cocksmoor ? ’ said Ethel. I had 
better own to what may he wrong personal feeling at first.’ 

1 1 can hardly call it wrong,’ said Margaret, tenderly, 1 con 
sidering what Cocksmoor is to you, and what the Ladies’ Commit- 
tee is.’ 

‘ Oh ! Margaret, if the lawful authority — if a good Clergyman 
would only come, how willingly would I work under him. But 
Mrs. Ledwich and — it is like having all the Spaniards and savages 
spoiling Bobinson Crusoe’s desert island ! ’ 

‘ It is not come to that yet,’, said Margaret ; ‘ but, about the 
Fancy Fair. We all know that the school is very much wanted.’ 

‘ Yes, but I hoped to wait in patience and perseverance, and do 
it at last.’ 

* All yourself ? ’ 

1 Now, Margaret ! you know I was glad of Alan’s help.’ 

‘I should ihink so ! ’ said Margaret. ‘ You need not make a 
favour of that ! ’ 

1 Yes, but, don’t you see, that came as almsgiving, in the way 
which brings a blessing. W e want nothing to make us give money 
and work to Cocksmoor. We do all we can already ; and I don’t 
want to get a fine bag or a ridiculous pincushion in exchange ! ’ 

1 Not you, but — ’ 

1 Well, for the rest. If they like to offer their money, well and 
good, the better for them ; but why must they not give it to Cocks- 
moor — but for that unnatural butterfly of Blanche’s with black 
pins for horns, that they will go and sell at an extortionate rate.’ 

1 The price will be given for Cocksmoor’s sake ! ’ 

1 Pooh ! Margaret. Bo you think it is for Cocksmoor’s sake 
that Lady Leonora Langdale and her fine daughter come down 
from London? Would Mrs. Hoxton spend the time in making 
frocks for Cocksmoor children that she does in cutting out paper, 
and stuffing glass bottles with it ? Let people be honest — alms, or 
pleasure, or vanity ! let them say which they mean ; but don’t make 
charity the excuse for the others ; and, above all, don’t make my 
poor Cocksmoor the victim of it.’ 

1 This is very severe,’ said Margaret, pausing, almost confounded. 
‘ Bo you think no charity worth having but what is given on un- 
mixed motives ? Who, then, could give ? ’ 

‘ Margaret — we see much evil arise in the best-planned institu- 
tions; nay, in what are not human. Bon’t you think we ought to 
do our utmost to have no flaw in the foundation ? Schools are not 
such perfect places that we can build them without fear, and, if the 
means are to be raised by a bargain for amusement — if they are to 
come from frivolity instead of self-denial, I am afraid of them. I 
do not mean that Cocksmoor has not been the joy of my life, and 
of Mary’s, but that was not because we did it for pleasure.’ 


0 


TI1E DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ No ! ’ said Margaret, sighing, ‘ you found pleasure by the way 
But why did you not say all this to Flora.’ 

‘ It is of no use to talk to Flora,’ said Ethel ; 1 she would say it 
was high-flown and visionary. Oh ! she wants it for the bazaar’s 
own sake, and that is one reason why I hate it.’ 

I Now, Ethel ! ’ 

I I do believe it was very unfortunate for Flora that the Hox- 
tons took to patronizing her, because Norman would not be patron- 
ized. Ever since it began, her mind has been full of visitings, and 
parties, and county families, and she has left off the home useful- 
ness she used to care about.’ 

1 But you are old enough for that,’ said Margaret. 1 It would 
be hard to keep Flora at home, now that you can take her place, 
and do not care for going out. One of us must be the representa- 
tive Miss May, you know, and keep up the civilities ; and you may 
think yourself lucky it is not you.’ 

‘ If it was only that, I should not care, but I may as well tell 
you, Margaret, for it is a weight to me. It is not the mere plea- 
sure in gaieties — Flora cares for them, in themselves, as little as I 
do — nor is it neighbourliness, as a duty to others, for, you may 
observe, she always gets off any engagement to the Wards, or any 
of the town folk, to whom it would be a gratification to have her — 
she either eludes them, or sends me. The thing is, that she is 
always trying to be with the great people, the county set, and I 
don’t think that is the safe way of going on.’ 

Margaret mused sadly. 1 You frighten me, Ethel ! I cannot 
say it is not so, and these are so like the latent faults that dear 
mamma’s letter spoke of — ’ 

Ethel sat meditating, and, at last, said, ‘ I wish I had not told 
you ! I don’t always believe it myself, and it is so unkind, and 
you will make yourself unhappy too. I ought not to have thought 
it of her ! Think of her ever ready kindness and helpfulness ; 
her pretty courteous ways to the very least ; her obligingness and 
tact ! ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Margaret, 1 she is one of the kindest people there is, 
and I am sure that she thought the gaining funds for Cocksmoor, 
was the best thing to be done, that you would be pleased, and a 
great deal of pleasant occupation provided for us all.’ 

1 That is the bright side, the surface side,’ said Ethel. 

‘ And not an untrue one,’ said Margaret ; 1 Meta will not be vain, 
and will work the more happily for Cocksmoor’s sake. Mary and 
Blanche, poor Mrs. Boulder, and many good ladies who hitherto 
have not known how to help Cocksmoor, will do so now with a good 
will, and thougli it is not what we should have chosen I think wc 
bad better take it in good part.’ 

1 You think so ? ’ 

‘ Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


7 


strong disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your 
dominion meddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting 
yourself forward to censure what is not absolutely wrong in itself 
and that cannot be desirable.’ 

1 No,’ said Ethel, ‘ but I cannot help being sorry for Cocksmoor. 
I thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted 
in good time, without hastiness — only earnestness.’ 

‘ You had made a picture for yourself,’ said Margaret, gently 
‘ Yes, we all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost 
figures in them ; but they are taken out of our hands, and we see 
others putting in rude touches, and spoiling our work, as it seems , 
but, by-and*by, we shall see that it is all guided.’ 

Ethel sighed. 1 Then having protested to my utmost against 
this concern, you think I ought to be amiable about it.’ 

1 And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy, if you 
would not bewilder her by your gloomy looks, and keep her to the 
hemming of your endless glazed calico bonnet strings.’ 

1 Poor old Mary ! I thought that was by her own desire.’ 

‘ Only her dutiful allegiance to you ; and, as making pincush- 
ions is nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, 
in some mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you.’ 

Ethel laughed, and said, ‘ I did not think Mary was in such 
awe of me. I’ll set her free, then. But, Margaret, do you really 
think I ought to give up my time to it ? ’ 

I Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little 
bit of your company w T ork — just enough for you not to annoy every- 
one, and seem to be testifying against them. You would not like 
to vex Meta.’ 

i It will go hard, if 1 do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear 
to see her deluded.’ 

I I don’t think she is/ said Margaret; ‘ but she does not set hef 
face against what others wish. As papa says of his dear little 
humming-bird, she takes the honey, and leaves the poison.’ 

‘ Yes; amid all that enjoyment, she is always choosing the good, 
and leaving the evil ; always sacrificing something, and then being 
happy in the sacrifice ! ’ 

1 No one would guess it was a sacrifice, it is so joyously done — 
least of all Meta herself.’ 

1 Her coming home from London was exactly a specimen of that 
sacrifice — and no sacrifice,’ said Ethel. 

1 What was that ? ’ said Norman, who had come up to the 
window unobserved, and had been listening to their few last 
sentences. 

1 Bid not you hear of it ? It was a sort of material turning 
away from vanity that made me respect the little rival Daisy, as 
much as I always admired her. 

‘ Tell me,’ said Norman. ‘ When was it ? ’ 


8 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 Last spring. You know Mr. Rivers is always ill in London : 
indeed, papa says it would be the death of him ; but Lady Leonora 
Langdale thinks it dreadful that Meta should not go to all the 
gaieties ; and, last year, when Mrs. Larpent was gone, she insisted 
on her coming to stay with her for the season. Now, Meta thought 
it wrong to leave her father alone, and wanted not to have gone at 
all, but, to my surprise, Margaret advised her to yield, and go foi 
some short fixed time.’ 

4 Yes,’ said Margaret; ‘as all her elders thought it right, I 
did not think we could advise her to refuse absolutely. Besides, it 
was a promise.’ 

‘ She declared she would only stay three weeks, and the Lang- 
dales were satisfied, thinking that, once in London, they should keep 
her. They little knew Meta, with her pretty ways of pretending 
that her resolution is only spoilt-child wilfulness. None of you 
quite trusted her, did you, Margaret ? Even papa was almost 
afraid, though he wanted her very much to be at home ; for poor 
Mr. Rivers was so low and forlorn without her, though he would 
not let her know, because Lady Leonora had persuaded him to 
think it was all for her good.’ 

‘ What did they do with her in London ? ’ asked Norman. 

‘ They did their utmost,’ said Ethel. ‘ They made engagements 
for her, and took her to parties and concerts — those she did enjoy 
very much — and she had lessons in drawing and music, but when- 
ever she wanted to see any exhibitions, or do anything, they always 
said there was time to spare. I believe it was very charming, and 
she would have been very glad to stay, but she never would promise, 
and she was always thinking of her positive duty at home. She 
seemed afterwards to think of her wishes to remain almost as if 
they had been a sin ; but she said — dear little Meta — that nothing 
had ever helped her so much as that she used to say to herself, 
whenever she was going out, “ I renounce the world.” It came to 
a crisis at last, when Lady Leonora wanted her to be presented — 
the drawing-room was after the end of her three weeks — and she 
held out against it ; though her aunt laughed at her, and treated 
her as if she was a silly, shy child. At last, what do you think 
Meta did ? She went to her uncle, Lord Cosham, and appealed to 
him to say whether there was the least necessity for her to go to 
court.’ 

‘ Then she gained the day ? ’ said Norman. 

‘ He was delighted with that spirited, yet coaxing way of hers, 
and admired her determination. He told papa so himself — for you 
must know, when he heard all Meta had to say, he called her a 
very good girl, and said he would take her home himself on the 
Saturday she had fixed, and spend Sunday at Abbotstoke. Oh ! he 
was perfectly won by her sweet ways. Was not it lucky ? for 
before this Lady Leonora had written to Mr. Rivers, and obtained 


THE DAI-SY CHAIN. 


9 


from him a letter, which Meta had the next day, desiring her to 
stay for the Drawing-room. But Meta knew well enough how it 
was, and was not to be conquered that way; so she said she must go 
home to entertain her uncle, and that if her papa really wished it, 
she would return on Monday.’ 

‘ Knowing well that Mr. Rivers would be only too glad to keep 
her.’ 

1 Just so. How happy they both did look, when they came in 
here on their way from the station where he had met her ! How 
she danced in, and how she sparkled with glee ! ’ said Margaret, 
‘ and poor Mr. Rivers was quite tremulous with the joy of having 
her back, hardly able to keep from fondling her every minute, and 
coming again into the room after they had taken leave, to tell me 
that his little girl had preferred her home, and her poor old father, 
to all the pleasures in London. Oh ! I was so glad they came ! 
That was a sight that did one good ! And then, I fancy Mr. Rivers 
is a wee bit afraid of his brother-in-law, for he begged papa and 
Flora to come home and dine with them, but Flora was engaged to 
Mrs. Hoxton.’ 

‘ Ha ! Flora! ’ said Norman, as if he rather enjoyed her losing 
something through her going to Mrs. Hoxton. ‘ I suppose she 
would have given the world to go ! ’ 

1 I was so sorry,’ said Ethel, ‘ but I had to go instead, and it was 
delightful. Papa made great friends with Lord Cosham, while Mr. 
Rivers went to sleep after dinner, and I had such a delightful 
wandering with Meta, listening to the nightingales, and hearing all 
about it. I never knew Meta so well before.’ 

1 And there was no more question of her going back ? ’ said 
Norman. 

1 No, indeed ! She said, when her uncle asked in joke, on Mon- 
day morning, whether she had packed up to return with him, Mr. 
Rivers was quite nervously alarmed the first moment, lest she 
should intend it.’ 

1 That little Meta,’ said Margaret. ‘ Her wishes for substantial 
use have been pretty well realized 1 ’ 

1 Urn. I ’ said Ethel. 

1 What do you mean ? ’ said Norman, sharply. ‘ I should call 
her present position the perfection of feminine usefulness.’ 

‘ So perhaps it is,’ said Ethel ; 1 but though she does it beauti 
fully, and is very valuable ; to be the mistress of a great luxurious 
house, like that, does not seem to me the subject of aspirations like 
Meta’s.’ 

1 Think of the contrast with what she used to be,’ said Margaret, 
gently, 1 the pretty, gentle, playful toy that her father brought hei 
up to be, living a life of more accomplishments and self-indulgence ; 
kind certainly, but never so as to endure any disagreeables, or make 
any exertion. But as soon as she entered into the true spirit of our 


10 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


calling, did she not begin to seek to live the sterner life, and train 
herself in duty ? The quiet way she took always seemed to me the 
great beauty of it. She makes duties of her accomplishments b\ 
making them loving obedience to her father . 5 

1 Not that they are not pleasant to her? 5 interposed Norman. 

‘ Certainly , 5 said Margaret, 1 but it gives them the zest, and 
confidence that they are right, which one could not have in such 
things merely for one’s own amusement . 5 

‘ Yes , 5 said Ethel, 1 she does more; she told me one day that 
one reason she liked sketching was, that looking into nature always 
made Psalms and Hymns sing in her ears, and so with her music 
and her beautiful copies from the old Italian devotional pictures. 
She says our papa taught her to look at them so as to see more 
than the mere art and beauty . 5 

1 Think how diligently she measures out her day , 5 said Margaret ; 

‘ getting up early, to be sure of time for reading her serious books, 
and working hard at her tough studies . 5 

1 And what I care for still more , 5 said Ethel, 1 her being bent on 
learning plain needlework and doing it for her poor people. She is 
so useful amongst the cottagers at Abbotstoke ! 

‘ And a famous little mistress of the house , 5 added Margaret. 

‘ When the old housekeeper went away two years ago, she thought 
she ought to know something about the government of the house ; 
so she asked me about it, and proposed to her father that the new 
one should come to her for orders, and that she should pay the 
wages and have the accounts in her hands. Mr. Rivers thought it 
was only a freak, but she has gone on steadily ; and I assure you, 
she has had some difficulties, for she has come to me about them. 
Perhaps Ethel does not believe in them ? 5 

‘ No, I was only thinking how I should hate ordering those fan- 
ciful dinners for Mr. Rivers. I know what you mean, and how she 
had difficulties about sending the maids to Church, and in dealing 
with the cook who did harm to the other servants, and yet sent up 
dinners that he liked, and how puzzled she was how to avoid annoy- 
ing him. Oh ! she has got into a peck of troubles by making her- 
self manager . 5 

‘ And had she not been the Meta she is, she would either have 
fretted, or thrown it all up, instead of humming briskly through all. 
She never was afraid to speak to anyone , 5 said Margaret, ‘ that is one 
thing ; I believe every difficulty makes the spirit bound higher, till 
ohc springs over it, and finds it, as she says, only a pleasure . 5 

* She need not be afraid to speak , 5 said Ethel, ‘ for she always 
does it well and willingly. I have seen her give a reproof in so firm 
and kind a way, and so bright in the instant of forgiveness . 5 

‘ Yes , 5 said Margaret, ‘ she does those disagreeable things as well 
as Flora does in her way . 5 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 11 

‘ And 3 r et,’ said Ethel, 1 loing things well does not seem to be a 
snare to her.’ 

‘ Because,’ whispered Margaret, ‘ she fulfils more than almost 
anyone — the — “ Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” ’ 

‘Bo you know,’ said Norman, suddenly, ‘ the derivation of 
Margarita ? ’ 

‘ No further than those two pretty meanings, the pearl and the 
daisy,’ said Ethel. 

‘ It is from the Persian Mervarid, child of light,’ said Norman ; 
and, with a sudden flush of colour, he returned to the garden. 

‘ A fit meaning for one who carries sunshine with her,’ said 
Margaret. ‘ I feel in better tune, for a whole day, after her bright 
eyes have been smiling on me.’ 

‘ You want no one to put you in tune,’ said Ethel fondly — ‘you, 
our own pearl of light.’ 

‘ No, call me only an old faded daisy,’ said Margaret sadly. 

‘ Not a bit, only our moon, la gran Margarita ,’ said Ethel. 

‘ I hear the real daisy coming 1 ’ exclaimed Margaret, her face 
lighting up with pleasure as the two youngest children entered, and 
indeed, little Gertrude’s golden hair, round open face, fresh red and 
white complexion, and innocent looks, had so much likeness to the 
flower, as to promote the use of the pet name, though protests were 
often made in favour of her proper appellation. Her temper was 
daisy-like too, serene and loving, and able to bear a great deal of 
spoiling, and resolve as they might, who was not her slave ? 

Miss Winter no longer ruled the school-room. Her sway had 
been brought to a happy conclusion by a proposal from a widowed 
sister to keep house with her ; and Ethel had reason to rejoice that 
Margaret had kept her submissive under authority, which, if not 
always judicious, was both kind and conscientious. 

Upon the change, Ethel had thought that the lessons could easily 
be managed by herself and Flora ; while Flora was very anxious for 
a finishing governess, who might impart singing to herself, graces to 
Ethel, and accomplishments to Mary and Blanche. 

Br. May, however, took them both by surprise. He met with a 
family of orphans, the eldest of whom had been qualifying herself 
for a governess, and needed nothing but age and finish ; and in ten 
minutes after the project had been conceived, he had begun to put it- 
in execution, in spite of Flora’s prudent demurs. 

Miss Bracy was a gentle, pleasing young person, pretty to look 
at, with her soft olive complexion, and languid pensive, eyes, 
obliging and intelligent ; and the change from the dry, authoritative 
Miss Winter, was so delightful, that unedifying contrasts were con- 
tinually being drawn. Blanche struck up a great friendship for her 
at once, Mary, always docile, ceased to be piteous at her lessons, 
and Ethel moralised on the satisfaction of having sympathy needed 


12 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


instead of repelled, and did lier utmost to make Miss Bracy feel at 
home — and like a friend — in her new position. 

For herself, Ethel had drawn up a beautiful time-table, with all 
her pursuits and duties most carefully balanced, after the pattern ot 
that which Margaret Rivers had made by her advice, on the depar- 
ture of Mrs. Larpent, who had been called away by the ill health of 
her son. Meta had adhered to hers in an exemplary manner, but 
she was her own mistress in a manner that could hardly be the lot 
of one of a large family. 

Margaret had become subject to languor and palpitations, and th* 
headship of the household had fallen entirely upon Flora, who, on 
the other hand, was a person of multifarious occupations, and 
always had a great number of letters to write, or songs, to copy and 
practise, which, together with her frequent visits to Mrs. Hoxton, 
made her glad to devolve as much as she could upon her younger 
sister ; and, u 0 Ethel, you will not mind just doing this for me,” 
was said often enough to be a tax upon her time. 

Moreover, Ethel perceived that Aubrey’s lessons were in au 
unsatisfactory state. Margaret could not always attend to them, 
and suffered from them when. she did; and he was bandied about 
between his sisters and Miss Bracy in a manner that made him 
neither attentive nor obedient. 

On her own principle, that to embrace a task heartily, renders 
it no' longer irksome, she called on herself to sacrifice her studies 
and her regularity as far as was needful, to make her available for 
home requirements. She made herself responsible for Aubrey, and, 
after a few battles with his desultory habits, made him a very 
promising pupil, inspiring so much of herself into him,' that he was, 
if anything, overfull of her classical tastes. In fact, ho had such 
an appetite for books, and dealt so much in precocious wisdom, that 
his father was heard to say, “ Six years old ! It is a comfort that 
he will soon forget the whole.” 

Gertrude was also Ethel’s pupil, but learning was not at all in 
her line ; and the sight of “ Cobwebs to Catch Flies, ’’-or of the 
venerated “ Little Charles,” were the most serious clouds, that made 
the Daisy pucker up her face, and infuse a whine into her voice. 

However, to-day, as usual, she was half dragged, half coaxed, 
thiough her day’s portion of the discipline of life, and then sent up 
for her sleep, while Aubrey’s two hours were spent in more agree- 
able work, such as Margaret could not but enjoy hearing — so spirited 
was Ethel’s mode of teaching — so eager was her scholar. 

His play afterwards consisted in fighting o’er again the siege of 
Troy on the floor, with wooden bricks, shells, and the survivors of 
a Noah’s ark, while Ethel read to Margaret until Gertrude’s de- 
scent from the nursery, when the only means of preventing a dire 
confusion in Aubrey’s camp was, for her elder sisters to become her 
play-fellows, and so spare Aubrey’s temper. E tliel good-humouredly 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 13 

gave her own time, till their little tyrant trotted out to make Nor- 
man carry her round the garden on his hack ! 

So sped the morning till Flora came home, full of the intended 
bazaar, and Ethel would fain have taken refuge in puzzling out 
her Spanish, had she not remembered her recent promise to be 
gracious. 

The matter had been much as she had described it. Flora had 
a way of hinting at anything she thought creditable, and thus the 
Stoneborough public had become aware of the exertions of the May 
family on behalf of Cocksmoor. 

The plan of a Fancy Fair was started. Mrs. Iloxton became 
more interested than was her wont, and Flora was enchanted at the 
opening it gave for promoting the welfare of the forlorn district. 
She held a position which made her hope to direct the whole. As 
she had once declared, with truth, it only had depended on them- 
selves, whether she and her sisters should sink to the level of the 
Andersons, and their set, or belong to the county society ; and her 
tact had resulted in her being decidedly — as the little dress-maker’s 
apprentice amused Ethel by saying — u One of our most distinguished 
patronesses ” — a name that had stuck by her ever since. 

Margaret looked on passively, inclined to admire Flora in every- 
thing, yet now and then puzzled ; and her father, in his simple- 
hearted way, felt only gratitude and exultation in the kindness that 
his daughter met with. As to the bazaar, if it had been started in 
his own family, he might have weighed the objections, but, as it 
was not his daughter’s own concern, he did not trouble himself 
about it, only regarding it as one of the many vagaries of the ladies 
of Stoneborough. 

So the scheme had been further developed, till now Flora came 
in with much to tell. The number of stalls had been finally fixed. 
Mrs. Hoxton undertook one, with Flora as an aid-de-camp, and 
some nieces to assist ; Lady Leonora was to chaperon Miss Livers ; 
and a third, to Flora’s regret, had been allotted to Miss Cleveland, 
a good-natured, merry, elderly heiress, who would, Flora feared, 
bring on them the whole “ Stoneborough crew.” And then she 
began to reckon up the present resources — drawings, bags, and 
pincushions. ‘ That chip hat you plaited for Daisy, Margaret, you 
must let us have that. It will be lovely, trimmed with pink.’ 

‘ Do you wish for this ? ’ said Ethel, heaving up a grim mass of 
knitting. 

‘ Thank you,’ said Flora ; 1 so ornamental, especially the original 
performance in the corner, which you would perpetrate, in spite of 
my best efforts.’ 

1 1 shall not be offended, if you despise it. I only thought you 
might have no more scruple in robbing Granny Hall, than in robbing 
Daisy.’ 

< Pray send it. Papa will buy it as your unique performance.' 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


U 


‘No; you shall tell me what I am to do.’ 

‘ Does she mean it? ’ said Flora, turning to Margaret. ‘ Have 
you converted her ? Well done ! Then, Ethel, we will get some 
pretty batiste , and you and Mary shall make some of those nice 
sun-bonnets, which you really do to perfection.’ 

‘ Thank you. That is a more respectable task than I expected. 
People may have something worth buying,’ said Ethel, who, like all 
the world, felt the influence of Flora’s tact. 

‘ I mean to study the useful,’ said Flora. ‘ The Cleveland set 
will be sure to deal in frippery, and I have been looking over Mrs. 
Hoxton’s stores, where I see quite enough for mere decoration. 
There are two splendid vases in potichomanie, in an Etruscan pat- 
tern, which are coming for me to finish.’ 

‘ Mrs. Taylor, at Cocksmoor, could do that for you,’ said EtheL 
‘ Her two phials, stuffed with chintz patterns and flour, are quite as 
original and tasteful.’ 

‘ Silly work,’ said Flora, 1 but it makes a fair show.’ 

‘ The essence of V anity Fair,’ said Ethel. 

‘ It won’t do to be satirical over much,’ said Flora. ‘ You won’t 
get on without humouring your neighbours’ follies.’ 

‘ I don’t want to get on.’ 

‘But you want — or, at least, I want — Cocksmoor to get on.’ 

Ethel saw Margaret looking distressed, and, recalling her resolu- 
tion, she said, ‘ Well, Flora, I don’t mean to say any more about it. 
I see it can’t be helped, and you all think you intend it for good ; 
so there’s an end of the matter, and I’ll do anything for you in 
reason.’ 

‘ Poor old King Ethel ! ’ said Flora, smiling in an elder-sisterly 
manner. ‘ You will see, my dear, your views are very pretty, but 
very impracticable, and it is a work-a-day world after all — even 
papa would tell you so. When Cocksmoor school is built, then you 
may thank me. I do not look for it before.’ 

»♦« 

CHAPTER, II 

Knowledge is second, not the first ; 

A higher Hand must make her mild, 

It' all be not in vain, and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side. 

With wisdom; like the younger child, 

For she is earthly of the mind, 

But knowledge heavenly of the soul. 

In Memoeiam. 

Etiieldrkd nad not answered her sister, but she did not feel at all 
secure that she should have anything to be thankful for, even if the 
school were built. 

The invasion of Cocksmoor was not only interference with hei 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


15 


own field of action, but it was dangerous to the improvement of her 
scholars. Since the departure of Mr. Wilmot, matters at Stone- 
borough National School had not improved, though the Miss 
Andersons talked a great deal about progress, science, and lectures. 

The Ladies’ Committee were constantly at war with the mistresses, 
and that one was a veteran who endured them, or whom they could 
endure beyond her first half-year. No mistress had staid a year within 
the memory of any girl now at school. Perpetual change prevented 
any real education, and, as each lady held different opinions and 
proscribed all books not agreeing thereto, everything u dogmatical ” 
was excluded ; and, as Ethel said, the children learnt nothing but 
facts about lions and steam-engines, while their doctrine varied 
with that of the visitor for the week. If the ten generals could 
only have given up to Miltiades, but alas ! there was no Miltiades. 
Mr. Ramsden’s health was failing, and his neglect told upon the 
parish in the dreadful evils reigning unchecked, and engulfing many 
a child whom more influential teaching might have saved. Mental 
arithmetic, and the rivers of Africa, had little power to strengthen 
the soul against temptation. 

The scanty attendance at the National School attested the indif- 
ference with which it was regarded, and the borderers voluntarily 
patronized Cherry Elwood, and thus had, perhaps, first aroused the 
emulation that led Mrs. Ledwich on a visit of inspection, to what 
she chose to consider as an offshoot of the National School. 

The next day, she called upon the Miss Mays. It was well that 
Ethel was not at home. Margaret received the lady’s horrors at 
the sight of the mere crowded cottage kitchen, the stupid untrained 
mistress, without an idea of method, and that impertinent woman, 
her mother ! Miss Flora and Miss Ethel must have had a great 
deal to undergo, and she would lose no time in convening the 
Ladie3 Committee, and appointing a successor to “ that Elwood,” as 
soon as a fit room could be erected for her use. If Margaret had 
not known that Mrs. Ledwich sometimes threatened more than she 
could accomplish, she would have been in despair. She tried to 
say a good word for Cherry, but was talked down, and had reason 
to believe that Mrs. Elwood had mortally offended Mrs. Ledwich. 

The sisters had heard the other side of the story at Cocksmoor. 
Mrs. Elwood would not let them enter the school, till she had heard 
how that there Mrs. Ledwich had come in, and treated them 
all as if it was her own place — how she had found fault with 
Cherry before all the children, and, as good as said, she was not fit 
to keep a school. She had even laid hands on one of the books, and 
said that she should take it home, and see whether it were a fit one 
for them to use ; whereupon Mrs. Elwood had burst out in defence — 
it was Miss Ethel May’s book, and should not bo taken away — 
it was Miss Ethel as she looked to — and when it seemed that 
Mrs. Ledwich had said something disparaging of Miss Ethel, either 


16 


THE TAISY CHAIN'. 


as to youth, judgment, or doctrine, Mrs. Elwood had fired up into a 
declaration that 1 Miss Ethel was a real lady — that she was ! and 
that no real lady would ever come prying into other folk’s work, 
and finding fault with what wasn’t no business of theirs,’ with moro 
of a personal nature, which Flora could not help enjoying, even 
while she regretted it. 

Cherry was only too meek, as her mother declared. She had 
said not a word, except in quiet reply, and being equally terrified by 
the attack and defence, had probably seemed more dull than was 
her wont. Her real feelings did not appear till the next Sunday, 
when, in her peaceful conference with Margaret, far from the sound 
of storms, she expressed that she well knew that she was a poor 
scholar, and that she hoped the young ladies would not let her 
stand in the children’s light, when a better teacher could be found 
for them. 

‘ I am sure ! ’ cried Ethel, as she heard of this , 1 it would be hard 
to find such a teacher in humility ! Cherry bears it so much better 
than I, that it is a continual reproof ! ’ 

As to the dullness, against which Ethel used to rail, the attacks 
upon it had made her erect it into a positive merit ; she was always 
comparing the truth, honesty, and respectful demeanour of Cherry’s 
scholars, with the notorious faults of the National School girls, as 
if these defects had been implanted either by Mrs. Ledwich, or by 
geography. It must be confessed that the violence of partisanship 
did not make her a pleasant companion. 

However, the interest of the bazaar began somewhat to divert the 
current of the ladies’ thoughts, and Ethel found herself walking 
day after day to Cocksmoor, unmolested by further reports of 
Mrs. Ledwich’s proceedings. Richard was absent, preparing for 
Ordination, but Norman had just returned home for the Long 
Y acation, and rather than lose the chance of a conversation with 
her, had joined her and Mary in a walk to Cocksmoor. 

His talk was chiefly of Settlesham, old Mr. Wilmot’s parish, 
where he had been making a visit to his former tutor, and talking 
over the removal to Eton of Tom, who had well responded to the 
care taken of him, and with his good principles confirmed, and his 
character strengthened, might be, with less danger, exposed to trial. 

It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman’s 
mind. Sixty years ago, old Mr. Wilmot had been what he now was 
himself — an enthusiastic and distinguished Balliol man, and he had 
kept up a warm, clear-sighted interest in Oxford, throughout his 
long life. His anecdotes, his recollections, and comments on 
present opinions had been listened to with great eagerness, and 
Norman had felt it an infinite honour to give the venerable old man 
his arm, as to be shown by him his curious collection of books. 
His parish, carefully watched for so many years, had been a study not 
lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars of the doings there, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


17 


which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast with Stoneborough, 
— In suck conversation they came to the entrance of the hamlet, 
and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really believed 
that he was going to help them ! He did not turn away. 

1 Thank you ! ’ said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her 
heart. 

She used him mercifully, and made the lessons shorter than 
usual, but when they reached the open air again, he drew a long 
breath; and when Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their 
scholars, asked if they could not be taught the use of eyelids. 

1 Did they stare ? * said Ethel. 1 That’s one advantage of being 
blind. No one can stare me out of countenance.’ 

‘ Why were you answering all your questions yourself ? ’ asked 
Mary. 

‘ Because no one els« would,’ said Norman. 

1 You used such hard words,’ replied Ethel. 

‘ Indeed ! I thought I was very simple.’ 

1 0 ! ’cried Mary, ‘ there were derive, and instruction, and implicate, 
and — oh, so many.’ 

‘ Never mind,’ said Ethel, seeing him disconcerted. ‘ It is better 
for them to be drawn up, and you will soon learn their language. 
If we only had Una M’Carthy here ! ’ 

1 Then you don’t like it ? ’ said Mary, disappointed. 

‘ It is time to learn not to be fastidious,’ he answered. ‘ So, if 
you will help me — ’ 

1 Norman, I am so glad ! ’ said Ethel. 

1 Yes,’ said Norman, ‘ I see now that these things that puff us up, 
and seem the whole world to us now, all end in nothing but such as 
this ! Think of old Mr. Wilmot, once carrying all before him, but 
deeming all his powers well bestowed in fifty years’ teaching of 
clowns ! ’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Ethel, very low. 1 One soul is worth — ’ and she 
paused from the fullness of thought. 

1 And these things, about which we are so elated, do not render 
us so fit to teach — as you, Mary, or as Bichard.’ 

1 They do,’ said Ethel. 1 The ten talents were doubled. Strength 
tells in power. The more learning, the fitter to teach the simplest 
thing.’ 

‘ You remind me of old Mr. Wilmot, saying that the first thing 
J he learnt at his parish was, how little his people knew ; the second, 
how little he himself knew.’ 

So Norman persevered in the homely discipline that he had chosen 
for himself, which brought out his deficiency in practical work in a 
manner which lowered him in his own eyes, to a degree almost 
satisfactory to himself. He was not, indeed, without humility, but 
his nature was self-contemplative and self-conscious enough to 
perceive his superiority of talent, and it had been the struggle of hia 


18 


THE LAISY CHAIN. 


life to abase the perception, so that it was actually a relief not to 
be obliged to fight with his own complacency in his powers. He 
had learnt not to think too highly of himself — he had yet to learn to 
“ think soberly.” His aid was Ethel’s chief pleasure through this 
somewhat trying summer, it might be her last peaceful one at 
Cocksmoor. 

That bazaar ! How wild it had driven the whole town, and 
even her own home ! 

Margaret herself, between good nature and feminine love of 
pretty things, had become ardent in the cause. In her unvaried 
life, it was a great amusement to have so many bright elegant things 
exhibited to her, and Ethel was often mortified to find her excited 
about some new device, or drawn off from “ rational employments,” 
to complete some trifle. 

Mary and Blanche were far worse. From the time that consent 
had been given to the fancy-work being carried on in the school- 
room, all interest in study was over. Thenceforth, lessons were a 
necessary form, gone through without heart or diligence. These 
were reserved for pasteboard boxes, beplastered with rice and seal- 
ing-wax, for alum-baskets, dressed dolls, and every conceivable 
trumpery ; and the governess was as eager as the scholars. 

If Ethel remonstrated, she hurt Miss Bracy’s feelings, and this 
was a very serious matter to both parties. 

The governess was one of those morbidly sensitive people, who 
cannot be stopped when once they have begun arguing that they are 
injured. Two women together, each with the last word instinct, 
have no power to cease; and, when the words are spent in explain- 
ing — not in scolding — conscience is not called in to silence them, 
and nothing but dinner, or a thunder-storm, can check them All 
Ethel’s good sense was of no avail; she could -not stop Miss Bracy, 
and, though she might resolve within herself that real kindness 
would be to make one reasonable reply, and then quit the subject, 
yet, on each individual occasion, such a measure would have seemed 
mere impatience and cruelty. She found that if Miss Winter had 
been too dry, Miss Bracy went to the other extreme, and demanded 
a manifestation of sympathy, and return to her passionate attach- 
ment that perplexed Ethel’s undemonstrative nature. Poor good 
Miss Bracy, she little imagined how often she added to the worries 
of her dear Miss Ethel, all for want of self-command. 

Finally, as the lessons were less and less attended to, and the 
needs of the stall became more urgent, Dr. May and Margaret con- 
curred in a decision, that it was better to yield to the mania, and 
give up the studies till they could be pursued with a willing mind. 

Ethel submitted, and only laughed with Norman at the display 
of treasures, which the girls went over daily, like the “ House that 
Jack built,” always starting from ‘ the box that Mary made.’ Come 
when Dr. May would into the drawing-room, there was always a line 


THE DAISY CITAIN. 


10 


of penwipers laid out on the floor, bags pendant to all the table- 
drawers, anti-macassars laid out everywhere. 

Ethel hoped that the holidays would create a diversion, but 
Mary was too old to be made into a boy, and Blanche drew Hector 
over to the feminine party, setting him to gum, gild, and paste all 
the contrivances which, in their hands, were mere feeble gimcraeks, 
but which now became fairly sound, or, at least, saleable. 

The boys also constructed a beautiful little ship from a print of 
the Alcestis, so successfully, that the Doctor promised to buy it ; 
and Ethel grudged the very sight of it to the bazaar. 

Tom, who, in person, was growing like a little shadow or model 
of Norman, had, unlike him, a very dextrous pair of hands, and 
made himself extremely useful in all such works. On the other 
hand, the Cleveland stall seemed chiefly to rely for brilliance on the 
wit of Harvey Anderson, who was prospering at his College, and the 
pride of his family. A great talker, and extremely gallant, he was 
considered a far greater acquisition to a Stoneborough drawing-room 
than was the silent, bashful Norman May, and rather looked down 
on his brother Edward, who, having gone steadily through the 
school, was in the attorney’s office, and went on quietly and well, 
colouring up gratefully whenever one of the May family said a kind 
word to him. 


CHAPTER III 

Any silk, any thread, 

Any toys for your head, 

Of the newest and finest wear-a ? 

Come to the pedlar, 

Money’s a medlar, 

That doth utter all men’s ware-a. 

W intek’8 Tale. 

1 This one day, and it will be over ! and we shall be rational again ! ’ 
thought Ethel, as she awoke. 

Flora was sleeping at the Grange, to be ready for action in the 
morning, and Ethel was to go early with Mary and Blanche, who 
were frantic to have a share in the selling. Norman and the boys 
were to walk at their own time, and the children to be brought later 
by Miss Bracy. The Doctor would be bound by no rules. 

It was a pattern-day, bright, clear, warm, and not oppressive, 
perfect for an out-of-doors fete ; and Ethel had made up her mind 
to fulfil her promise to Margaret of enjoying herself. In the bril- 
liant sunshine, and between two such happy sisters, it would have 
been surly, indeed, not to enter into the spirit of the day ; and 
Ethel laughed gaily with them, and at their schemes and hopes • 
Blanche’s heart being specially set on knowing the fate of a watch 
guard of her own construction. 


20 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Hearing that the ladies were in the gardens, they repaired 
thither at once. The broad, smooth bowling-green lay before them ; 
a marquee, almost converted into a bower, bounding it on either 
side, while, in the midst arose, gorgeous and delicious, a pyramid of 
flowers — contributions from all the hot-houses in the neighbourhood 
— to be sold for the benefit of the bazaar. Their freshness and fra- 
grance gave a brightness to the whole scene, while shrinking from 
such light, as only the beauteous works of nature could bear, was 
the array accomplished by female fingers. 

Under the wreathed canopies were the stalls, piled up with 
bright colours, most artistically arranged. Ethel, with her over 
minute knowledge of every article, could hardly believe that yonder 
glowing Eastern pattern of scarlet, black and blue, was, in fact, a 
judicious mosaic of penwipers that she remembered, as shreds beg- 
ged from the tailor, that the delicate lacework consisted of Miss 
Bracys’ perpetual anti-macassars, and that the potichomanie could 
look so dignified and Etruscan. 

‘ Here you are ! ’ cried Meta Bivers, springing to meet them. 
Good girls to come early. Where’s my little Daisy ? ’ 

‘ Coming in good time,’ said Ethel. 1 How pretty it all looks ! ’ 

1 But where’s Flora — where’s my watch-guard,’ anxiously asked 
Blanche. 

1 She was here just now,’ said Meta, looking round. 1 What a 
genius she is, Ethel ! She worked wonders all yesterday, and let 
the Miss Hoxtons think it was all their own doing, and she was out 
before six this morning, putting finishing touches.’ 

‘ Is this your stall ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Yes, but it will not bear a comparison with hers. It has a 
lady’s-maid look by the side of hers. In fact, Bellairs and my 
aunt’s maid did it chiefly, for papa was rather ailing yesterday, and 
I could not be out much. 

1 How is he now ? ’ 

‘ Better; he will walk round by-and-by. I hope it will not be 
too much for him.’ 

1 Oh ! what beautiful things / ’ cried Mary, in ecstasy, at what 
she was forced to express by the vague substantive, for her imagina- 
tion had never stretched to the marvels she beheld. 

‘ Aye ! we have been lazy, you see, and so Aunt Leonora brought 
down all these smart concerns. It is rather like Howell and 
James’s, isn’t it ? ’ 

In fact, Lady Leonora’s marquee was filled with costly knick- 
knacks, which, as Meta justly said, had not half the grace and ap- 
propriate air that reigned where Flora had arranged, and where 
Margaret had worked, with the peculiar freshness and finish that 
distinguished everything to which she set her hand. 

Miss Cleveland’s counter was not ill set out, but it wanted the 
air of ease and simplicity, which was even more noticeable than the 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


21 


perfect taste of Flora’s wares. If tliere Lad been nothing facetious, 
the effect would have been better, but there was nothing to regret, 
and the whole was very bright and gay. 

Blanche could hardly look ; so anxious was she for Flora to tell 
her the locality of her treasure. 

‘ There she is,’ said Meta at last. { George is fixing that branch 
of evergreen for her.’ 

‘ Flora ! I did not know her,’ cried each sister, amazed, while 
Mary added, e Oh ! how nice she looks.’ 

It was the first time of seeing her in the white muslin, and broad 
chip-hat — which all the younger saleswomen of the bazaar had 
agreed to wear. It was a most becoming dress, and she did, indeed, 
look strikingly elegant and well dressed. It occurred to Ethel, for 
the first time, that Flora was decidedly the reigning beauty of the 
bazaar — no one but Meta Bivers could be compared to her, and that 
little lady was on so small a scale of perfect finish, that she seemed 
fit to act the fairy, where Flora was the enchanted princess. 

Flora greeted her sisters eagerly, while Meta introduced her 
brother — a great contrast to herself, though not without a certain 
comeliness, tall and large, with ruddy complexion, deep lustreless 
black eyes, and a heavy straight bush of black moustache, veiling 
rather thick lips. Blanche reiterated inquiries for her watch-guard. 

1 I don’t know,’ said Flora. ‘ Somewhere among the rest.’ 

Blanche was in despair. 

‘ You may look for it,’ said Flora — who, however hurried, never 
failed in kindness — £ if you will touch nothing.’ 

So Blanche ran from placo to place in restless dismay, that 
caused Mr. George Bivers to ask what was the matter. 

‘ The guards ! the guards ! ’ cried Blanche ; whereupon he fell 
into a fit of laughter, which disconcerted her, because she could not 
understand him, and made Ethel take an aversion to him on the spot. 

However, he was very good-natured ; he took Blanche’s reluctant 
hand, and conducted her all along the stall, even proceeding to lift 
her up where she could not command a view of the whole, thus 
exciting her extreme indignation. She shook herself out when he 
set her down, surveyed her crumpled muslin, and believed he took 
her for a little girl ! She ought to have been flattered when the 
quest was successful, and he insisted on knowing which was the 
guard, and declared that he should buy it. She begged him to do 
no such thing, and he desired to know why — insisting that he would 
give five shillings — fifteen — twenty-five for that one ! till she did 
not know whether he was in earnest, and she doing an injury to the 
bazaar ! 

Meantime, the hour had struck, and Flora had placed Mrs. Hox 
ton in a sheltered-spot, where she could take as much, or as little 
trouble, as she pleased. Lady Leonora, and Miss Langdale, came 
from the house, and, with the two ladies-maids in the back-ground, 


22 THE DAISY CHAIN. 

/ 

took up their station with Miss Rivers. Miss Cleveland called lief 
party to order, and sounds of carriages were heard approaching. 

Mary and Blanche disbursed the first money spent in the “ Fancy 
Fair Mary, on a blotting-book for Harry, to be placed among the 
presents, to which she added on every birthday, while Blanche 
bought a sixpenny gift for everyone, with more attention to the 
quantity than the quality. Then came a revival of her anxieties for 
the guards, and while Mary was simply desirous of the fun of being 
a shopwoman, and was made.happy by Meta Rivers asking her help, 
Blanche was in despair, till she had sidled up to their neighbour- 
hood, and her piteous looks had caused good-natured Mrs. Hoxton 
to invite her to assist, when she placed herself close to the precious 
object. 

A great fluttering of heart went to that manoeuvre, but still 
felicity could not be complete. That great troublesome Mr. George 
Rivers, had actually threatened to buy nothing but that one watch- 
chain, and Blanche’s eye followed him everywhere with fear, lest he 
should come that way. And there were many other gentlemen — 
what could they want but watch-guards, and of them — what — save 
this paragon ? 

Poor Blanche ; what did she not undergo whenever any one cast 
his eye over her range of goods ? and this was not seldom, for there 
was an attraction in the pretty little eager girl, glowing and smiling. 
One old gentleman actually stopped, handled the guards themselves, 
and asked their price. 

‘ Eighteen-pence,’ said Blanche, colouring and faltering, as she 
held up one in preference. 

‘ Eh ! is not this the best ? ’ said he, to the lady on his arm. 

‘ Oh ! please, take that instead ? ’ exclaimed Blanche, in extremity. 

‘ And why ? ’ asked the gentleman, amused. 

‘ I made this,’ she answered. 

‘ Is that the reason I must not have it ? ’ 

‘ No, don’t teaze her,’ the lady said, kindly ; and the other was 
taken. 

‘ I wonder for what it is reserved ! ’ the lady could not help 
saying, as she walked away. 

‘ Let us watch her for a minute or two. What an embellishment 
children are ! Ha ! don’t you see — the little maid is fluttering and 
reddening now ! How pretty she looks ! Ah ! I see ! here’s the 
favoured ! Don’t you see the fine bronzed lad — Eton — one can see 
at a glance ! It is a little drama. They are pretending to be 
strangers. He is turning over the goods with an air, she trying 
to look equally careless, but what a pretty carnation it is ! Ha ! ha ! 
he has come to it — he has it ! Now the acting is over, and they are 
having their laugh out ! How joyously ! What next ! Oh ! she 
begs off from keeping shop — she darts out to him, goes off in his 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 23 

hand — I declare that is the prettiest sight in the whole fair ! I 
wonder who the little demoiselle can be ? ’ 

The great event of the day was over now with Blanche, and she 
greatly enjoyed wandering about with Hector and Tom. There was 
a post-office at Miss Cleveland’s stall, where, on paying sixpence, a 
letter could be obtained to the address of the inquirer. Blanche 
had been very anxious to try, but Flora had pronounced it nonsense ; 
however, Hector declared that Flora was not his master, tapped at 
the sliding panel, and charmed Blanche by what she thought a most 
witty parody of his name as Achilles Lionsrock, Esquire. When 
the answer came from within, “ Ship letter, sir, double postage, ” 
they thought it almost uncanny ; and Hector’s shilling was requited 
by something so like a real ship letter, that they had some idea that 
the real post had somehow transported itself thither. The interior 
was decidedly oracular, consisting of this one line, 1 1 counsel you 
to persevere in your laudable undertaking.’ 

Hector said he wished he had any laudable undertaking, and 
Blanche tried to persuade Tom to try his fortune, but he pronounced 
that he did not care to hear Harvey Anderson’s trash — he knew his 
writing, though disguised, and had detected his shining boots below 
the counter. There Mr. George Bivers came up, and began to teaze 
Blanche about the guards, asking her to take his fifteen shillings — 
or five-and-twenty, and who had got that one , which alone he 
wanted ; till the poor child, a^ier standing perplexed for some mo- 
ments, looked up with spirit, and said, “ You have no business to 
ask,” and, running away, took refuge in the back of Mrs. Hoxton’s 
marquee, where she found Ethel packing up for Miss Hoxton’s 
purchasers, and confiding to her that Mr. George Bivers was a horrid 
man, she ventured no more from her protection. She did, indeed, 
emerge, when told that papa -was coming with Aubrey and Daisy, 
and Miss Bracy, and she had the pleasure of selling to them some 
of her wares, Dr. May bargaining with her to her infinite satisfac- 
tion ; and little Gertrude’s blue eyes opened to their full width, not 
understanding what could have befallen her sisters. 

‘ And what is Ethel doing ? ’ asked the Doctor. 

1 Packing up parcels, papa,’ and Ethel’s face was raised, looking 
very merry. 

1 Packing parcels ! How long will they last tied up ? ’ said Dr. 
May, laughing. . 

4 Lasting is the concern of nothing in the fair, papa,’ answered 
she, in the same tone. 

For Ethel was noted as the worst packer in the house ; but, 
having offered to wrap up a pincushion, sold by a hurried Miss Hox- 
ton, she became involved in the office for the rest of the day — the 
same which Bellairs and her companion performed at the Langdale 
counter. Flora was too ready and dextrous to need any such aid, 
but the Miss Hoxtons were glad to be spared the trouble ; and 
15 


24 : 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Blanche, whose fingers were far neater than Ethel’s, made the task 
much easier, and was kept constant to it by her dread of the dark 
moustache, which was often visible near their tent, searching, she 
thought, for her. 

Their humble employment was no sinecure ; for this was the 
favourite stall with the purchasers of better style, since the articles 
were, in general, tasteful, and fairly worth the moderate price set 
on them. At Miss Cleveland’s counter, there was much noisy 
laughter — many jocular cheats — tricks for gaining money, and 
refusals to give change ; and it seemed to be very popular with the 
Stoneborough people, and to carry on a brisk trade. The only 
languor was in Lady Leonora’s quarter — the articles were too 
costly, and hung on hand , nor were the ladies sufficiently well 
known, nor active enough, to gain custom, excepting Meta, who 
drove a gay traffic at her end of the stall, which somewhat redeemed 
the general languor. 

Her eyes were, all the time, watching for her father, and, sud- 
denly perceiving him, she left her trade in charge of the delighted 
and important Mary, and hastened to walk round with him, and 
shew him the humours of the fair. 

Mary, in her absence, had the supreme happiness of obtaining 
Norman as a customer. He wanted a picture for his rooms at 
Oxford, and water-coloured drawings were, as Tom had observed, 
suitable staple commodities for Miss Livers. Mary tried to make 
him choose a brightly-coloured pheasant, with a pencil back-ground ; 
and, then, a fine foaming sea-piece, by some unknown Lady Adelaide, 
that much dazzled her imagination ; but nothing would serve him 
but a sketch of an old cedar tree, with Stoneborough Minster in the 
distance, and the Welsh hills beyond, which Mary thought a remark- 
able piece of bad taste, since — could he not see all that any day of 
his life ? and was it worth while to give fourteen shillings and 
sixpence for it ? But he said it was all for the good of Cocksmoor, 
and Mary was only too glad to add to her hoard of coin ; so she 
only marvelled at his extravagance, and offered to take care of it 
for him ; but to this, he would not consent. He made her pack it 
up for him, and had just put the whity-brown parcel under his arm, 
when Mr. Rivers and his daughter came up, before he was aware. 
Mary proudly advertised Meta that she had sold something for 
her. 

1 Indeed ! What was it ? ’ 

( Your great picture of Stoneborough ! ’ said Mary. 

‘ Is that gone ? I am sorry you have parted with that, my 
dear ; it was one of your best,’ said Mr. Rivers, in his soft, sleepy, 
gentle tone. 

‘ Oh ! papa, I can do another. But, I wonder ! I put that ex- 
tortionate price on it, thinking no one would give it, and so that I 
should keep it for you. Who has it, Mary ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


25 


* Norman, there. He would have it, though I told him it was 
very dear.’ 

Norman, pressed near them by the crowd, had been unable to 
escape, and stood blushing, hesitating, and doubting whether he 
ought to restore the prize, which he had watched so long, and ob- 
tained so eagerly. 

‘ Oh ! it is you ? ’ said Mr. Rivers, politely. 1 0, no, do not think 
of exchanging it. I am rejoiced that one should have it who can 
appreciate it. It was its falling into the hands of a stranger that 
I disliked. You think with me, that it is one of her best drawings.’ 

1 Yes, I do,’ said Norman, still rather hesitating. 

‘ She did that with C , when he was here last year. He 

taught her very well. Have you that other here, that you took with 
him, my dear ? The view from the gate, I mean.’ 

1 No, dear papa. You told me not to sell that.’ 

‘ Ah ! I remember ; that is right. But there are some very 
pretty copies from Prout here.’ 

While he was seeking them, Meta contrived to whisper — 1 if you 
could persuade him to go in-doors — this confusion of people is so 
bad for him, and I must not come away. I was in hopes of Dr. 
May, but he is with the little ones.’ 

Norman signed comprehension, and Meta said, * Those copies 
are not worth seeing, but, you know, papa, you have the originals 
in the library.’ 

Mr. Rivers looked pleased, but was certain that Norman could 
not prefer the sketches to this gay scene. However, it took very 
little persuasion to induce him to do what he wished, and he took 
Norman’s arm, crossed the lawn, and arrived in his own study, 
where it was a great treat to him to catch anyone who would ad- 
mire his accumulation of prints, drawings, coins, &c. ; and his young 
friend was both very well amused, and pleased to be setting Miss 
Rivers’s mind at ease on her father’s account. It was not till half- 
past four that Dr. May knocked at the door, and stood surprised at 
finding his son there. Mr. Rivers spoke warmly of the young 
Oxonian’s kindness in leaving the fair for an old man, and praised 
Norman’s taste in art. Norman rose to take leave, but still thought 
it incumbent on him to offer to give up the picture, if Mr. Rivers 
set an especial value on it. But Mr. Rivers went to the length of 
being very glad that it was in his possession, and added to it a very 
pretty drawing of the same size, by a noted master, which had been 
in the water-colour exhibition, and, while Norman walked away, 
well pleased, Mr. Rivers began to extol him to his father, as a very 
superior and sensible young man, of great promise, and began to 
wish George had the same turn. 

Norman, on returning to the fancy fair, found the world in all 
the ardour of raffles. Lady Leonora’s contributions were the chief 
prizes, which attracted everyone, and, of course, the result was do' 


26 


THE DAISY CHAIN-. 


lightfully incongruous. Poor Ethel, who had been persuaded to 
venture a shilling to please Blanche, who had spent all her own, 
obtained the two jars in potichamanie, and was regarding them with 
a face worth painting. Harvey Anderson had a doll, George 
Rivers a wooden monkey, that jumped over a stick ; and, if Hector 
Ernescliffe was enchanted at winning a beautiful mother-of-pearl 
inlaid work-box, which he had vainly wished to buy for Mar- 
garet, Flora only gained a match-box of her own, well known al- 
ways to miss fire, but which had been decided to be good enough for 
the bazaar. 

By fair means or foul, the commodities were cleared off, and, 
while the sun-beams faded from the trodden grass, the crowds dis- 
appeared, and the vague compliment- — “ a very good bazaar,” was 
exchanged between the lingering sellers and their friends. 

Flora was again to sleep at the Grange and return the next day, 
for a committee to be held over the gains, which were not yet fully 
ascertained. So Dr. May gathered his flock together, and packed 
them, boys and all, into the two conveyances, and Ethel bade Meta 
good night, almost wondering to hear her merry voice say, 1 It has 
been a delightful day, has it not ? It was so kind of your brother 
to take care of papa.’ 

1 Oh ! it was delightful,’ echoed Mary, ‘ and I took one pound 
fifteen and sixpence ! ’ 

£ I hope it will do great good to Cocksmoor,’ added Meta, ‘ but, 
if you want real help, you know, you must come to us.’ 

Ethel smiled, but hurried her departure, for she saw Blanche 
again tormented by Mr. George Rivers, to know what had become 
of the guard, telling her that, if she would not say, he should be 
furiously jealous. 

Blanche hid her face on Ethel’s arm, when they were in the 
carriage, and almost cried with indignant “ shamefastness.” That 
long-desired day had not been one of unmixed happiness to her, poor 
child, and Ethel doubted whether it had been so to anyone, except, 
indeed, to Mary, whose desires never soared so high but that they 
were easily fulfilled, and whose placid content was not easily wounded. 
All she was wishing now was, that Harry were at home, to receive 
his paper-case. 

The return to Margaret was real pleasure. The narration of all 
that had passed was an event to her She was so charmed with her 
presents, of every degree ; things, unpleasant at the time, could, by 
drollery in the relating, be made mirthful fun, ever after; Dr. May 
and the boys were so comical in their observations — Mary’s wonder 
and simplicity came in so amazingly — and there was such merriment 
at Ethel’s two precious jars, that she could hardly wish they had 
not come to her. On one head, they were all agreed, in dislike of 
George Rivers, whom Mary pronounced to be a detestable man, and, 
when gently called to order by Margaret, defended it, by saying 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


27 


that Miss Bracy said it was better to detest than to hate, while 
Blanche coloured up to the ears, and hid herself behind the arm- 
chair ; and Dr. May qualified the censure by saying, he believed 
there was no great harm in the youth, but that he was shallow- 
brained, and extravagant, and, having been born in the days when 
Mr. Bivers had been working himself up in the world, had not had 
so good an education as his little half-sister. 

‘ Well, what are you thinking of?’ said her father, laying his- 
hand on Ethel’s arm, as she was wearily and pensively putting 
together the scattered purchases, before going up to bed. 

‘ I was thinking, papa, that there is a great deal of trouble taken, 
in this world, for a very little pleasure.’ 

‘ The trouble is the pleasure, in most cases, most misanthropical 
Miss ! ’ 

‘ Yes, that is true ; but, if, so, why cannot it be taken for some 
good ? ’ 

1 They meant it to be good,’ said Dr. May. ‘ Come, I cannot 
have you severe and ungrateful.’ 

‘ So I have been telling myself, papa, all along ; but, now that 
the day has come, and I have seen what jealousies, and competi- 
tions, and vanities, and disappointments it has produced — not even 
poor little Blanche allowed any comfort — I am almost sick at heart, 
with thinking Cocksmoor was the excuse ! ’ 

1 Spectators are more philosophical than actors, Ethel. Others 
have not been tying parcels all day.’ 

1 I had rather do that than — but that is the u Fox and the 
Grapes,” ’ said Ethel, smiling. ‘ What I mean is, that the real 
gladness of life is not in these great occasions of pleasure, but in 
the little side delights, that come in the midst of one’s work, don’t 
they, papa ? Why is it worth while to go and search for a day’s 
pleasuring ? ’ 

1 Ethel, my child ! I don’t like to hear you talk so,’ said Dr. 
May, looking anxiously at her. ‘ It may be too true, but it is not 
youthful, nor hopeful. It is not as your mother or I felt in our 
young days, when a treat was a treat to us, and gladdened our 
hearts long before and after. I am afraid you have been too much 
saddened with loss and care — ’ 

* Oh ! no, papa ! ’ said Ethel, rousing herself, though speaking 
huskily. 1 You know I am your merry Ethel. You know I can be 
happy enough — only at home—’ 

And Ethel, though she had tried to be cheerful, leant against 
his arm, and shed a few tears. 

1 The fact is, she is tired out,’ said Dr. May, soothingly, yet 
half laughing. ‘ She is not a beauty or a grace, and she is thought- 
ful and quiet, and so she moralizes, instead of enjoying, as the world 
goes by. I dare say a night’s rest will make all the difference in 
the world.’ 


28 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 All ! but there is more to come. That Ladies’ Committee at 
Cocksmoor!’ 

1 They are not there yet, Ethel. Good night, you, tired little 
cynic. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Hack then, complaincr 

Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast 
Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last 
In joy to find it after many days. 

Christian Year. 

The next day, Ethel had hoped for a return to reason, but behold, 
the world was cross ! The reaction of the long excitement was felt, 
Gertrude fretted, and was unwell ; Aubrey was pettish at his les- 
sons ; and Mary and Blanche were weary, yawning and inattentive, 
every straw was a burthen, and Miss Bracy had feelings. 

Ethel had been holding an interminable conversation with her 
in the school-room, interrupted at last by a summons to speak to a 
Cocksmoor woman at the back door, and she was returning from 
the kitchen, when the Doctor called her into his study. 

‘ Ethel ! what is all this ? Mary has found Miss Bracy in floods 
of tears in the school-room, because she says you told her she was 
ill-tempered.’ 

1 1 am sure you will be quite as much surprised,’ said Ethel, some- 
what exasperated, ‘when you hear that you lacerated her feelings 
yesterday.’ 

1 1 ? Why what did I do ? ’ exclaimed Dr. May. 

‘ You showed your evident want of confidence in her.’ 

‘ I ? What can I have done ? ’ 

‘ You met Aubrey and Gertrude in her charge, and you took 
"hem away at once to walk with you.’ 

‘Well?’ 

‘ Well, that was it. She saw you had no confidence in her,’ 

‘ Ethel, what on earth can you mean ? I saw the two children 
dragging on her. and I thought she would see nothing that was 
going on, and would be glad to be released ; and I wanted them to 
go with me, and see Meta’s gold pheasants.’ 

‘ That was the offence. She has been breaking her heart all 
this time, because she was sure, from your manner, that you wero 
displeased to see them alone with her — eating bon-bons , 1 believe, 
and therefore took them away.’ 

‘ Daisy is the worse for her bon-bons , I believe, but the over- 
dose of them rests on my shoulders. I do not know how to believe 
you, Ethel. Of course you told her, nothing of the kind crossed 
my mind, poor thing.’ 


THE DAISY CHAItf. 29 

1 1 told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times 
before, hut her feelings are always being hurt ! ’ 

1 Poor thing, poor thing ! no doubt it is a trying situation, ana 
she is sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her ? 5 

‘ I hope we are,’ said Ethel ; 1 but how can we tell what vexes 
her?’ 

1 And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered ? * 
asked Dr. May, incredulously. 

1 Well, papa,’ said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking 
it so impossible, ‘ 1 had often thought I ought to tell her that 
these sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper ; and per- 
haps — indeed I know I do — I partake of the general fractiousness 
of the house to-day, and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I 
did say that I thought it wrong to foster her fancies ; for if she 
looked at them coolly, she would find they were only a form of 
pride and temper.’ 

‘ It did not come well from you, Ethel,’ said the Doctor, looking 
vexed. 

1 No, I know it did not,’ said Ethel, meekly ; 1 but oh ! to have 
these j anglings once a week, and to see no end to them ! ’ 

‘ Once a week ? ’ 

‘ It is really as often, or more often ! ’ said Ethel. 1 If any of 
us criticize anything the girls have done, if there is a change in 
any arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected — I can’t tell 
you what little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue 
with me, till — oh ! till we are both half-dead, and yet cannot stop 
ourselves.’ 

1 Why do you argue ? ’ 

1 If I could only help it ! ’ 

‘ Bad management,’ said the Doctor, in a low musing tone. 

1 You want a head ! ’ — and he sighed. 

1 Oh ! papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have 
told you, if I had remembered — but I am worried to-day, and off 
my guard — ’ 

< Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for 
hearing everything.’ 

1 These were such nonsense ! ’ 

{ What may seem nonsense to you, is not the same to her. You 
must be forbearing, Ethel. Remember that dependence is prone to 
morbid sensitiveness, especially in those who have a humble esti- 
mate of themselves.’ 

1 It seems to me that touchiness is more pride than humility,' 
said Ethel, whose temper, already not in the smoothest state, found 
it hard that, after having long borne patiently with these constant 
arguments, she should find Miss Bracy made the chief object of 
compassion. 

Dr. May’s chivalrous, foeling caused him to take the part ot the 


30 


THE DAISY CHAIN . 


weak, and lie answered, ‘ You know nothing about it. Among oui 
own kin, we can afford to pass over slights, because we are sure the 
heart is right — we do not know what it is to be among strangers, 
uncertain of any claim to their esteem or kindness. Sad ! sad ! ’ he 
continued, as the picture wrought on him. 1 Each trifle seems a 
token one way or the other ! I am very sorry I grieved the poor 
thing yesterday. I must go and tell her so at once.’ 

He put Ethel aside, and knocked at the school-room door, 
while Ethel stood, mortified. ‘ He thinks I have been neglecting, 
or speaking harshly to her ! For fifty times that I have borne 
with her maundering, I have, at last, once told her the truth ; and 
for that I am accused of want of forbearance ! Now he will go 
and make much of her, and pity her, till she will think herself an 
injured heroine, and be worse than ever; and he will do away 
with all the good of my advice, and want me to ask her pardon for 
it — but that I never will. It was only the truth, and I will stick 
to it.’ 

‘ Ethel ! ’ cried Mary, running up to her, then slackening her 
pace, and whispering ; c You did not tell Miss Bracy she was ill- 
tempered.’ 

‘ No — not exactly. How could you tell papa I did ? ’ 

‘ She said so. She was crying, and I asked what was the mat 
ter, and she said, my sister Ethel said, she was ill-tempered.’ 

1 She made a great exaggeration then,’ said Ethel. 

‘I am sure she was very cross all day ! ’ said Mary. 

1 Well, that is no business of yours,’ said Ethel, pettishly. 1 What 
now ? Mary ! don’t look out at the street window.’ 

1 It is Flora — the Grange carriage — ’ whispered Mary, as the 
two sisters made a precipitate retreat into the drawing-room. 

Meanwhile, Hr. May had been in the school-room. Miss Bracy 
had ceased her tears before he came — they had been her retort on 
Ethel, and she had not intended the world to know of them. Half- 
disconcerted, half-angry, she heard the Doctor approach. She was 
a gentle, tearful woman, one of those who are often called meek, 
under an erroneous idea, that meekness consists in making herself 
exceedingly miserable under every kind of grievance ; and she now 
had a sort of melancholy satisfaction in believing that the young 
ladies had fabricated an exaggerated complaint of her temper, and 
that she was going to become injured innocence. To think herself 
accused of a great wrong, excused her from perceiving herself guilty 
of a lesser one. 

1 Miss Bracy,’ said Dr. May, entering with his frank, stfeet 
look ; 1 1 am concerned that I vexed you by taking the children to 
walk with me yesterday. I thought such little brats would be 
troublesome to any but their spoiling papa, but they would have 
been in safer hands with you. You would not have been as weak 
as I was, in regard to sugar-plums.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


31 


Sucli amends as these confused Miss Bracy, who found it 
pleasanter to be lamentable with Ethel, than to receive a full apology, 
for her imagined offence, from the master of the house. Feeling 
both small and absurd, she murmured something of [ oh no ; ’ and 
‘ being sure,’ and hoped he was going, so that she might sit 
down to pity herself, for those girls having made her appear so 
ridiculous. 

No such thing ! Dr. May put a chair for her, and sat down 
himself, saying, with a smile, ‘ You see, you must trust us some- 
times, and overlook it, if we are less considerate than we might be. 
We have rough, careless habits with each other, and forget that all 
are not used to them.’ 

Miss Bracy exclaimed, £ Oh ! no, never, they were most kind.’ 

‘ We wish to be,’ said Dr. May, 1 but there are little neglects — 
or you think there are. I will not say there are none, for that 
would be answering too much for human nature, or that they are 
fanciful — for that would be as little comfort as to tell a patient that 
the pain is only nervous — ’ 

Miss Bracy smiled, for she could remember instances when, 
after suffering much at the time, she had found the affront im- 
aginary. 

He was glad of that smile, and proceeded. 1 You will let me 
speak to you, as to one of my own girls ? To them, I should say, 
use the only true cure. Don’t brood over vexations, small or great, 
but think of them as trials that, borne bravely, become blessings.’ 

‘ Oh ! but Dr. May ! ’ she exclaimed, shocked ; ‘ nothing in your 
house could call for such feelings.’ 

‘ I hope we are not very savage,’ he said, smiling ; 1 but, indeed, 
I still say it is the safest rule. It would be the only one if you 
were really among unkind people ; and, if you take so much to 
heart an unlucky neglect of mine, what would you do if the slight 
were a true one ? ’ 

‘ You are right ; but my feelings were always over sensitive; ’ 
and this she said with a sort of complacency. 

‘ Well, we must try to brace them,’ said Dr. May, much as if 
prescribing for her. ‘ Will not you believe in our confidence and 
esteem, and harden yourself against any outward unintentional piece 
of incivility ? ’ , 

She felt as if she could at that moment. 

‘ Or at least try to forgive and forget them. Talking them over 
only deepens the sense of them, and discussions do no good to any- 
one. My daughters are anxious to be your best friends, as I hopa 
you know.’ 

‘ Oh ! they are most kind — ’ 

‘ But, you see, I must say this — ’added Dr. May, somewhat 
hesitating — ‘ as they have no mother to — to spare all this — ’ and 
then, growing clearer, he proceeded, ‘ I must beg you to be forbear- 


32 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


ing with them, and not perplex yourself and them with arguing on 
what cannot be helped. They have not the experience that could 
enable them to finish such a discussion without unkindness ; and it 
can only waste the spirits, and raise fresh subjects of regret. I must 
leave you — I hear myself called.’ 

Miss Bracy began to be sensible that she had somewhat abused 
Ethel’s patience; and the unfortunate speech about the source of 
her sensitiveness, did not appear to her so direfully cruel as at first. 
She hoped everyone would forget all about it, and resolved not to 
take umbrage so easily another time, or else be silent about it, but 
she was not a person of much resolution. 

The Doctor found that Meta Rivers and her brother had brought 
Flora home, and were in the drawing-roctn, where Margaret was 
hearing another edition of the history of the fair, and a bye-play 
was going on, of teasing Blanche about the chain. 

George Rivers was trying to persuade her to make one for him ; 
and her refusal came out at last, in an almost passionate key, in 
the midst of the other conversation — ‘ Noll say — no ! ’ 

‘ Another no, and that will be yes.’ 

‘ No ! I won’t ! I don’t like you well enough ! ’ 

Margaret gravely sent Blanche and the other children away, to 
take their walk, and the brother and sister, soon after, took leave, 
when Flora called Ethel to hasten to the Ladies’ Committee, that 
they might arrange the disposal of the one hundred and fifty pounds 
the amount of their gains. 

‘ To see the fate of Coeksmoor,’ said Ethel. 

‘ Do you think I cannot manage the Stoneborough folk ? ’ said 
Flora, looking radiant with good humour, and conscious of power. 

‘ Poor Ethel ! I am doing you good against your will ! Never mind 
here is wherewith to build the school, and the management will be 
too happy to fall into our hands. Do you think every one is as 
ready as you are, to walk three miles, and back, continually ? ’ 
There was sense in this ; there always was sense in what Flora 
said, but it jarred on Ethel; and it seemed almost unsympathizing 
in her to be so gay, when the rest were wearied or perturbed. Ethel 
would have been very glad of a short space to recollect herself, and 
recover her good temper ; but it was late, and Flora hurried her to 
put on her bonnet, and come to the Committee. ‘ I’ll take care of 
your interests,’ she said, as they set out. ‘ You look as doleful as 
if you thought you should be robbed of Coeksmoor, but that is the 
last thing that will happen, you will see.’ 

‘ It would not be acting fairly to let them build for us, and then 
for us to put them out of the management,’ said Ethel. 

1 My dear, they want importance, not action. They will leave 
the real power to us of themselves.’ 

‘ You like to build Coeksmoor with such instruments,’ said Ethel, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


33 


whose ruffled condition made her forget her resolution not to argua 
with Flora.’ 

‘ Bricks are made of clay ! ’ said Flora. £ There, that was said 
like Norman himself ! On your plan, we might have gone on for 
forty years, saving seven shillings a year, and spending six, when- 
ever there was an illness in the place.’ 

‘ You, who used to dislike these people more than even I did ! ’ 
said Ethel. 

‘ That was when I was an infant, my dear, and did not know how 
to deal with them. I will take care — I will even save Cherry El wood 
for you, if I can. Alan Ernescliffe’s ten pounds is a noble weapon.’ 

‘ You always mean to manage everything, and then you have no 
time ! ’ said Ethel, sensible all the time of her own ill-humour, and 
of her sister’s patience and amiability, yet propelled to speak the 
unpleasant truths that in her better moods were held back. 

Still Flora was good tempered, though Ethel would almost have 
preferred her being provoked ; 1 1 know,’ she said, 1 1 have been 
using you ill, and leaving the world on your shoulders, but it was 
all in your service and Cocksmoor’s ; and now we shall begin to be 
reasonable and useful again.’ 

1 1 hope so,’ said Ethel. 

1 Really, Ethel, to comfort you, I think I shall send you with 
Norman to dine at Abbotstoke Grange on Wednesday. Mr. Rivers 
begged us to come; he is so anxious to make it lively for his son.’ 

‘ Thank you, I do not think Mr. George Rivers and I should be 
likely to get on together. What a bad style of wit ! You heard 
what Mary said about him ? ’ and Ethel repeated the doubt between 
hating and detesting. 

1 Young men never know how to talk to little girls,’ was Flora’s 
reply. 

At this moment they came up with one of the Miss Anderson’s 
and Flora began to exchange civilities, and talk over yesterday 
events with great animation. Her notice always gave pleasure, 
brightened as it was by the peculiarly engaging address which she 
had inherited from her father, and which, therefore, was perfectly 
easy and natural. Fanny Anderson was flattered and gratified, 
rather by the manner than the words, and, on excellent terms, they 
entered the Committee-room, namely, the school-mistress’s parlour. 

There were nine ladies on the Committee — nine muses, as the 
Doctor called them, because they produced anything but harmony. 
Mrs. Ledwich was in the chair ; Miss Rich was secretary, and had 
her pen and ink, and account-book ready. Flora came in, smiling 
and greeting ; Ethel, grave, earnest, and annoyed, behind her, try- 
ing to be perfectly civil, but not at all enjoying the congratulations 
on the successful bazaar. The ladies all talked and discussed their 
yesterday’s adventures, gathering in little knots, as they traced the 
fate of favourite achievements of their skill, while Ethel, lugubrious 


34 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and impatient, beside Flora, the only one not engaged, and, there- 
fore, conscious of the hubbub of clacking tongues. 

At last, Mrs. Ledwich glanced at the mistress’s watch, in its 
paste-board tower, in Gothic architecture, and insisted on proceed- 
ing to business. So they all sat down round a circular table, with 
a very fine red, blue, and black oil-cloth, whose pattern was in- 
separably connected, in Ethel’s mind, with absurdity, tedium, and 
annoyance. 

The business was opened by the announcement of what they all 
knew before, that the proceeds of the Fancy Fair amounted to one 
hundred and forty-nine pounds, fifteen shillings and tenpence. 

Then came a pause, and Mrs. Ledwich said that next they had to 
consider what was the best means of disposing of the sum gained in 
this most gratifying manner. Everyone except Flora, Ethel, and 
quiet Mrs. Ward, began to talk at once. There was a great deal 
about Elizabethan architecture, crossed by much more, in which 
normal, industrial, and common things, most often met Ethel’s ear, 
with some stories, second-hand, from Harvey Anderson, of marvel- 
lous mistakes ; and, on the opposite side of the table, there was Mrs. 
Ledwich, impressively saying something to the silent Mrs. Ward, 
marking her periods with emphatic beats with her pencil, and each 
seemed to close with “ Mrs. Perkinson’s niece,” whom Ethel knew 
to be Cherry’s intended supplanter. She looked piteously at Flora, 
who only smiled, and made a sign with her hand to her to be patient. 
Ethel fretted inwardly at that serene sense of power ; but she could 
not but admire how well Flora knew how to bide her time, when, 
having waited till Mrs. Ledwich had nearly wound up her discourse 
on Mrs. Elwood’s impudence, and Mrs. Perkinson’s niece, she leant 
towards Miss Boulder, who sat between, and whispered to her : 
1 Ask Mrs. Ledwich if we should not begin with some steps for 
getting the land.’ 

Miss Boulder, having acted as conductor, the president exclaimed, 
Just so, the land is the first consideration. We must at once take 
steps for obtaining it.’ Thereupon Mrs. Ledwich, who “ always did 
things methodically,” moved, and Miss Anderson seconded, that the 
land requisite for the school must be obtained, and the nine ladies 
held up their hands, and resolved it. 

Miss Rich duly recorded the great resolution, and Miss Boulder 
suggested that, perhaps, they might write to the National Society, 
or Government, or something ; whereat Miss Bich began to flourish 
one of the very long goose quills which stood in the inkstand before 
her, chiefly as insignia of office, for she always wrote with a small, 
stiff metal pen. 

Flora here threw in a query, whether the National Society, or 
Government, or something, would give them a grant, unless they 
had the land to build upon ? 

The ladies all started off hereupon, and all sorts of instances of 


THE DAISY CIIAIK. 


35 


hardness of heart were mentioned ; the most relevant of which was, 
that the Church Building Society would not give a grant to Mr. 
Holloway’s proprietary Chapel at Whitford, when Mrs. Ledwich 
was suddenly struck with the notion that dear Mr. Holloway might 
be prevailed on to come to Stoneborough, to preach a sermon in the 
Minster, for the benefit of Cocksmoor, when they would all hold 
plates at the door. Flora gave Ethel a tranquillizing pat, and, as 
Mrs. Ledwich turned to her, asking whether she thought Dr. May, 
or Dr. Hoxton, would prevail on him to come, she said, with her 
winning look, ‘ I think that consideration had better wait till we 
have some more definite view. Had we not better turn to this land 
question ? ’ 

‘ Quite true ! ’ they all agreed, but to whom did the land belong ? 
— : and what a chorus arose ! Miss Anderson thought it belonged to 
Mr. Nicholson, because the wagons of state had James Nicholson on 
them, and, if so, they had no chance, for he was an old miser — and 
six stories illustrative thereof ensued. Miss Rich was quite sure 
some Body held it, and Bodies were slow of movement. Mrs. Led- 
wich remembered some question of enclosing, and thought all waste 
lands were under the Crown; she knew that the Stoneborough 
people once had a right to pasture their cattle, because Mr. South- 
ron’s cow had tumbled down a loam-pit, when her mother was a girl. 
No, that was on Far-view down, out the other way ! Miss Harrison 
was positive that Sir Henry Walkinghame had some right there, 
and would not Dr. May apply to him ? Mrs. Grey thought it ought 
to be part of the Dry dale estate, and Miss Boulder was certain that 
Mr. Bramshaw knew all about it. 

Flora’s gentle voice carried conviction that she knew what she 
was saying, when, at last, they left a moment for her to speak — 
(Ethel would have done so long ago.) ‘ If I am not mistaken, the 
land is a copyhold of Sir Henry Walkinghame, held under the 
manor of Drydale, which bebngs to M College, and is under- 

let to Mr. Nicholson.’ 

Everybody, being partially right, was delighted, and had known 
it all before ; Miss Boulder agreed with Miss Anderson, that Miss 
May had stated it as lucidly as Mr. Bramshaw could. The next 
question was, to whom to apply ? and, after as much as was expedi- 
ent had been said in favour of each, it was decided that, as Sir Henry 
W alkinghame was abroad, no one knew exactly where, it would, be 
best to go to the fountain-head, and write at once to the Principal 
of the College. But who was to write ? Flora proposed Mr. Rams- 
den as the fittest person, but this was negatived. Everyone declared 
that he would never take the trouble, and Miss Rich began to agi- 
tate her pens. By this time, however, Mrs. Ward, who was oppo- 
site to the Gothic clock-tower, began to look uneasy, and suggested, 
in a nervous manner, that it was half-past five, and she was afraid 
Mr. Ward would be kept waiting for his dinner. Mrs. Grey began 


36 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


to have like fears, that Mr. Grey would he come in from his ride, 
after banking hours. The other ladies began to think of tea, and 
the meeting decided on adjourning till that day next week, when 
the Committee would sit upon Miss Rich’s letter. 

1 My dear Miss Flora ! ’ began Miss Rich, adhering to her as 
they parted with the rest at the end of the street, ‘ How am I to 
write to a Principal ? Am I to begin Reverend Sir, or my Lord, 
or is he Venerable, like an Archdeacon? What is his name, and 
what am I to say ? ’ 

1 Why, it is not a correspondence much in my line,’ said Flora, 
laughing. 

‘ Ah ! but you are so intimate with Dr. Hoxton, and your 
brothers at Oxford ! You must know — ’ 

1 I’ll take advice,’ said Flora, good-naturedly. 1 Shall I come, 
and call before Friday, and tell you the result ? ’ 

1 Oh ! pray ! It will be a real favour ! Good morning — ’ 

‘ There,’ said Flora, as the sisters turned homewards ; 1 Cherry 
is not going to be turned out just yet ! ’ 

‘ How could you, Flora? Now they will have that man from 
Whitford, and you said not a word against it ! ’ 

1 What was the use of adding to the hubbub ? A little oppo- 
sition would make them determined on having him. You will see, 
Ethel, we shall get the ground on our own terms, and then it will 
be time to settle about the mistress. If the harvest holidays were 
not over, we would try to send Cherry to a training-school, so as to 
leave them no excuse.’ 

‘ I hate all this management and contrivance. It would be more 
honest to speak our minds, and not pretend to agree with them.’ 

1 My dear Ethel ! have I spoken a word contrary to my opinion ? 
It is not fit for me, a girl of twenty, to go disputing and dragoon- 
ing as you would have me ; but a little scavoir faire, a grain of 
common sense, thrown in among the babble, always works. Don’t 
you remember how Mrs. Ward’s sister told us that a whole crowd 
of tottering Chinese ladies would lean on her, because they felt her 
firm support, though it was out of sight ? ’ 

Ethel did not answer ; she had self-control enough left, not to 
retort upon Flora’s estimate of herself, but the irritation was strong ; 
she felt as if her cherished views for Cocksmoor were insulted, as 
well as set aside, by the place being made the occasion of so much 
folly and vain prattle, the sanctity of her vision of self-devotion 
destroyed by such interference, and Flora’s promises did not reas- 
sure her. She doubted Flora’s power, and had still more repug- 
nance to the means by which her sister tried to govern ; they did 
not seem to her straightforward, and she could not endure Flora’s 
complacency in their success. Had it not been for her real love for 
the place, and people, as well as the principle which prompted that 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


37 


. y ove, she could have found it in her heart to throw up all conccns 
with it, rather than become a fellow-worker with such a conclave. 

Such were Ethel’s feelings as the pair walked down the street ; 
the one sister bright and smiling with the good humour that had 
endured many shocks all that day, all good-nature and triumph, 
looking forward to success, great benefit to Cocksmoor, and plenty 
of management, with credit and praise to herself ; the other, down- 
cast and irritable, with annoyance at the interference with her 
schemes, at the prospects of her school, and at herself for being out 
of temper, prone to murmur or to reply tartly, and not able to re- 
cover from her mood, but only, as she neared the house, lapsing into 
her other trouble, and preparing to resist any misjudged, though kind 
attempt of her father, to make her unsay her rebuke to Miss Bracy. 
Pride and temper ! Ah ! Etheldred 1 where were they now ? 

Dr. May was at his study door, £ s his daughters entered the 
hall, and Ethel expected the order which she meant to question, 
but, instead of this, after a brief inquiry after the doings of the 
nine muses, which Flora answered, so as to make him laugh, he 
stopped Ethel, as she was going up-stairs, by saying, ‘ I do not know 
whether this letter is intended for Richard, or for me. At any rate, 
it concerns you most.’ 

The envelope was addressed to the Reverend Richard May, D.D., 
Market Stoneborough, and the letter began, ‘ Reverend Sir.’ So far 
Ethel saw, and exclaimed, with amusement, then, with a long-drawn 
“ Ah ! ” and an interjection, “ My poor dear Una! ” she became ab- 
sorbed, the large tears — yes, Ethel’s reluctant tears gathering slowly 
and dropping. 

The letter was from a Clergyman far away in the north of Eng- 
land, who said he could not, though a stranger, resist the desire to 
send to Dr. May, an account of a poor girl, who seemed to have re- 
ceived great benefits from him, or from some of his family, especially 
as she had shown great eagerness on his proposing to write. 

He said it was nearly a year since there had come into his parish 
a troop of railway men and their families. For the most part, they 
were completely wild and rude, unused to any pastoral care ; but, 
even on the first Sunday, he had noticed a keen-looking, freckled, 
ragged, unmistakably Irish girl, creeping into Church, with a 
Prayer-book in her hand, and had afterwards found her hanging 
about the door of the school. “ I never saw a more engaging, 
though droll, wild expression, than that with which she looked up 
to me — ” (Ethel’s cry of delight was, at that sentence — she knew 
that look so well, and had yearned after it so often !) “I found her 
far better instructed than her appearance had led me to expect, and 
more truly impressed with the spirit of what she had learnt, than 
it has often been my lot to find children. She was perfect in the 
New Testament history — ” (‘ Ah ! that she was not, when she went 
away ! ’ ) “ and was in the habit of constantly attending Church, and 


38 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


using morning and evening prayers — ” ( 1 Oh ! how I longed, when 
she went away, to beg her to keep them up ! Dear Una.’) “ On my 
questions, as to how she had been taught, she always replied, 

‘ Mr. Richard May,’ or ‘ Miss Athel.’ You must excuse me, if 
I have not correctly caught the name, from her Irish pronuncia- 
tion — ” ( 1 1 am afraid he thinks my name is Athaliah ! But, oh ! 

this dear girl ! How I have wished to hear of her.’) “ Everything 
was answered with ‘ Mr. Richard,’ or ‘ Miss Athel ; ’ and, if I 
enquired further, her face would light up with a beam of gratitude, 
and she would run on as long as I could listen, with instances of 
their kindness. It was the same with her mother, a wild, rude 
specimen of an Irishwoman, whom I never could bring to Church 
herself, but who ran on loudly with their praises, usually ending 
with, 1 Heavens be their bed,’ and saying that Una had been quite 
a different girl since the young ladies and gentleman found her out, 
and put them parables in her head.” 

“ For my own part, I can testify that, in the seven months that 
she attended my school, I never had a serious fault to find with her, 
but far more often to admire the earnestness and devout spirit, as 
well as the kindness and generosity apparent in all her conduct. 
Bad living, and an unwholesome locality, have occasioned a typhus 
fever among the poor strangers in this place, and Una was one of 
the first victims. Her mother, almost from the first, gave her up, 
saying, she knew she was one marked for glory; and Una has been 
lying, day after day, in a sort of half-delirious state, constantly re- 
peating hymns and psalms, and generally, apparently very happy, 
except when one distress occurred again and again, whether deliri- 
ous or sensible, namely, that she had never gone to wish Miss May 
good-bye, and thank her ; and, that may be, she and Mr. Richard 
thought her ungrateful; and, she would sometimes beg, in her 
phraseology, to go on her bare knees to Stoneborough, only to see 
Miss Athel again. 

“ Her mother, I should say told me the girl had been half-mad, 
at not being allowed to go and take leave of Miss May ; and she 
had been sorry herself, but her husband had come home suddenly 
from the search for work, and, having made his arrangements, re- 
moved them at once, early the next morning — too early to go to the 
young lady — though, she said, Una did — as they passed through 
Stoneborough — run down the street before she was aware, and she 
found her sobbing, fit to break her heart, before the house — ” ( l Oh ! 
why, why was I not up, and at the window ! Oh, my Una ! to think 
of that ! ’ ) “ When I spoke of writing to let Miss May hear how 

it was, the poor girl caught at the idea with the utmost delight. 
Her weakness was too great to allow her to utter many words dis- 
tinctly, when I asked her what she would have me say, but these 
were as well as I could understand : — ‘ The blessing of one, tlial 
they have brought peace unto. Tell them I pray, and will pray 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


30 


that they may walk in the robe- of glory — and tell Mr. Richard 
that I mind what he said unto me, of taking hold on the sure hope. 
God crown all their crosses to them, and fulfil all their desires 
unto everlasting life.’ I feel that I am not rendering her words 
with all their fervour and beauty of Irish expression, but I would 
that I could fully retain and transmit them, for, those who have so 
led her, must, indeed, be able to feel them precious. I never saw 
a more peaceful frame of penitence and joy. She died last night, 
sleeping herself away, without more apparent suffering, and will bo 
committed to the earth on Sunday next, all her fellow-scholars 
attending ; and, I hope, profiting by the example she has left.” 

“ I have only to add my most earnest congratulations to those, 
whose labour of love has borne such blessed fruit ; and, hoping you 
will pardon the liberty, &c.” 

Etheldred finished the letter through blinding tears, while rising 
sobs almost choked her. She ran away to her own room, bolted 
the door, and threw herself on her knees, beside her bed — now 
confusedly giving thanks for such results — now weeping bitterly 
over her own unworthiness. Oh ! what was she in the sight of 
Heaven, compared with what this poor girl had deemed her — with 
what this Clergyman thought her ? She, the teacher, taught, trained, 
and guarded, from her infancy, by her wise mother, and by such a 
father ! She, to have given way, all day, to pride, jealousy, anger, 
selfish love of her own will ; when this poor girl had embraced, and 
held fast, the blessed hope, from the very crumbs they had brought 
her ! Nothing could have so humbled the distrustful spirit that 
had been working in Ethel, which had been scotched into silence — 
not killed — when she endured the bazaar, and now had been in- 
demnifying itself by repining at every stumbling-block. Her own 
scholar’s blessing was the rebuke that went most home to her heart, 
for having doubted whether good could be worked in any way, save 
her own. 

She was interrupted by Mary, trying to open the door, and, 
admitting her, heard her wonder at the traces of her tears, and ask 
what there was about Una ? Ethel gave her the letter, and Mary’s 
tears showered very fast — they always came readily. ‘Oh! Ethel! 
how glad Richard will be ! ’ 

‘Yes; it is all Richard’s doing. So much more good, and wise, 
and humble, as he is. No won-Ier his teaching — ’ and Ethel sat 
down and cried again. 

Mary pondered. ‘ It makes me very glad,’ she said ; ‘ and yet 
I don’t know why one cries. Ethel, do you think ’ — she came near, 
and whispered — ‘ that Una has met dear mamma there ? ’ 

Ethel kissed her. It was almost the first time Mary had spoken 
of her mother; and she answered, ‘ Dear Mary, we cannot tell — we 
may think. It is all one Communion, you know.’ 


40 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Mary was silent, and, next time she spoke, it was to hope that 
Ethel would tell the Cocksmoor children about Una. 

Ethel was obliged to dress, and go down-stairs to tea. Hef 
father seemed to have been watching for her, with his study door 
open, for he came to meet her, took her hand, and said, in a low 
voice, ‘ My dear child, I wish you joy. This will be a pleasant mes- 
sage, to bid poor Bitchie good speed for his Ordination, will it not? 5 

1 That it will, papa — ’ 

1 Why, Ethel, have you been crying over it all this time ? ’ said 
he, struck by the sadness of her voice. 

1 Many other things, papa. I am so unworthy — but it was not 
our doing — but the grace — ’ 

1 No, but thankful you may be, to have been the means of 
awakening the grace ! ’ 

Ethel’s lips trembled. 1 And, oh, papa ! coming to-day, when I 
have been behaving so ill to you, and Miss Bracy, and Flora, and all.’ 

1 Have you ? I did not know you had behaved ill to me.’ 

1 About Miss Bracy — I thought wrong things, if I did not say 
them. To her, I believe, I said what was true, though it was harsh 
of me to say it, and — ’ 

1 What ? about pride and temper ? It was true, and I hope it 
will do her good. Cure a piping turkey with a pepper-corn some- 
times. I have spoken to her, and told her to pluck up a little 
spirit ; not fancy affronts, and not to pester you with them. Poor 
child ! you have been sadly victimized to-day and yesterday. No 
wonder you were bored past patience, with that absurd rabble of 
women ! ’ 

‘ It was all my own selfish, distrustful temper, wanting to have 
Cocksmoor taken care of in my own way, and angry at being in- 
terfered with. I see it now — and here this poor girl, that I thought 
thrown away — ’ 

1 Aye, Ethel, you will often see the like. The main object may 
fail or fall short, but the earnest pains-taking will always be blessed 
some way or other, and where we thought it most wasted, some 
fresh green shoot will spring up, to show it is not we that give the 
increase. I suppose you will write to Bichard with this ? 5 

1 That I shall.’ 

‘ Then you may send this with it. Tell him my arm is tired 
and stiff to-day, or I would have said more. He must answer the 
Clergyman’s letter.’ 

I)r. May gave Ethel his sheet not folded. His written words 
were now so few as to be cherished amongst his children. 

Dear Richard, — May all your ministerial works be as blessed as this, your first 
labour of love. I give you hearty joy of this strengthening blessing. — Mine goes 
with it — ‘only be strong and of a good courage.’ 

Your affectionate Father, R. May 

P. S. Margaret does not gain ground this summer — you must soon coma 
home and chccr her. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


41 


CHAPTER Y. 

As late, engaged by fancy’s dream, 

I lay beside a rapid stream, 

I saw my first come gliding by, 

Its airy form soon caught my eye ; 

Its texture frail, and colour various, 

Like human hopes, and life precarious. 

Sudden, my second caught my ear, 

And filled my soul with instant fear; 

I quickly rose, and home I ran, 

My whole was hissing in the pan. 

Kiddle. 

Flora revised the letter to the Principal, and the Ladies’ Commit- 
tee approved, after having proposed seven amendments, all of which 
Flora caused to topple over by their own weakness. 

After interval sufficient to render the nine ladies very anxious, 
the Principal wrote from Scotland, where he was spending the long 
Vacation, and informed them that their request should be laid be- 
fore the next College meeting. 

After the Committee had sat upon this letter, the two sisters 
walked home in much greater harmony than after the former meet- 
ing. Etheldred had recovered her candour, and was willing to own 
that it was not art, but good sense, that gave her sister so much 
ascendancy. She began to be hopeful, and to declare that Flora 
might yet do something even with the ladies. Flora was gratified 
by the approval that no one in the house could help valuing; 

1 Positively,’ said Flora, ‘ 1 believe I may in time. You see there 
are different ways of acting, as an authority, or as an equal.’ 

‘ The authority can move from without, the equal must from 
within,’ said Ethel. 

‘Just so. We must circumvent their prejudices, instead of 
trying to beat them down.’ 

‘ If you only could have the proper Catechizing restored ! ’ 

‘Wait; you will see. Let me feel my ground.’ 

* Or if we could only abdicate into the hands of the rightful 
power ! ’ 

‘ The rightful power would not be much obliged to you.’ 

‘ That is the worst of it,’ said Ethel. ‘ It is sad to hear the 
sick people say that Dr. May is more to them than any parson ; it 
shows that they have so entirely lost the notion of what their 
Clergyman should be.’ 

‘ Dr. May is the man most looked up to in the town,’ said Flora, 
‘and that gives weight to us in the Committee, but it is all in the 
using.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Ethel, hesitating. 

‘ You see, we have the prestige of better birth, and better educa- 
tion, as well as of having the chief property in the town, and of 
being the largest subscribers, added to his personal character,’ said 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


42 

Flora ; 1 so that everything conspires to render us leaders, and oui 
age alone prevented us from assuming our post sooner.’ 

They were at home by this time, and, entering the hall, per- 
ceived that the whole party were in the lawn. The consolation of 
the children for the departure of Hector and Tom, was a bowl of 
soap-suds and some tobacco pipes, and they had collected the house 
to admire and assist ; even Margaret’s couch being drawn close to 
the window. 

Bubbles are one of the most fascinating of sports. There is the 
soft foamy mass, like driven snow, or like whipped cream. Blanche 
bends down to blow “ a honeycomb,” holding the bowl of the pipe 
in the water ; at her gurgling blasts there slowly heaves upwards 
the pile of larger, clearer bubbles, each reflecting the whole scene, 
and sparkling with rainbow tints, until Aubrey ruthlessly dashes 
all into fragments with his hand, and Mary pronounces it stiff 
enough, and presents a pipe to little Daisy, who, drawing the liquid 
into her mouth, throws it away with a grimace, and declares that 
she does not like bubbles. But Aubrey stands with swelled cheeks, 
gravely puffing at the sealing-waxed extremity. Out pours a con- 
fused assemblage of froth, but the glassy globe slowly expands the 
little branching veins, flowing down on either side, bearing an 
enlarging miniature of the sky, the clouds, the tulip-tree. Aubrey 
pauses to exclaim ! but where is it ? Try again ! A proud bubble, 
as Mary calls it, a peacock, in blended pink and green, is this 
transparent sphere, reflecting and embellishing house, wall, and 
shrubs! It is too beautiful! It is gone! Mary undertakes to 
give a lesson, and blows deliberately without the slightest result. 
Again ! She waves her disengaged hand in silent exultation as the 
airy balls detach themselves, and float off on the summer breeze, 
with a tardy, graceful, uncertain motion. Daisy rushes after them, 
catches at them, and looks at her empty fingers with a puzzled 
“All gone ! ” as plainly expressed by Toby, who snaps at them, and 
shakes his head with offended dignity at the shock of his meeting 
teeth, while the kitten frisks after them, striking at them with her 
paw, amazed at meeting vacancy. 

Even the grave Norman is drawn in. He agrees with Mary that 
bubbles used to fly over the wall, and that one once went into 
Mrs. Bichardson’s garret window, when her housemaid tried to 
catch it with a pair of tongs, and then ran down-stairs screaming 
that there was a ghost in her room ; but that was in Harry’s time, 
the heroic age of the May nursery. 

He accepts a pipe, and his greater height raises it into a favor- 
able current of air — the glistening balloon sails off. It flies, it 
soars ; no, it is coming down ! The children shout at it, as if to 
drive it up, but it wilfully descends — they rush beneath, they try 
to waft it on high with their breath — there is a collision between 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


48 


Mary and Blanche — Aubrey perceives a taste of soapy water — the 
bubble is no more — it has vanished in his open mouth. 

Papa himself has taken a pipe, and the little ones are mounted 
on chairs, to be on a level with their tall elders. A painted globe 
is swimming along, hesitating at first, but the dancing motion is 
tending upwards, the rainbow tints glisten in the sunlight — all rush 
to assist it; if breath of the lips can uphold it, it should rise, 
indeed ! Up ! above the wall, over Mrs. Richardson’s elm, over the 
topmost branch — hurra ! out of sight. Margaret adds her voice to 
the acclamations. Beat that if you can, Mary. That doubtful 
wind keeps yours suspended in a gracefnl minuet ; its pace is 
accelerated — but earthwards 1 it has committed self-destruction by 
running foul of a rose-bush. A general blank ! 

‘ You here, Ethel ? ’ said Norman, as the elders laughed at each 
other’s baffled faces. 

‘ I am more surprised to find you here,’ she answered. 

‘ Excitement ! ’ said Norman, smiling ; ‘ one cause is as good as 
another for it.’ 

‘ Very pretty sport,’ said Dr. May. ‘ You should write a poem 
on it, Norman.’ 

‘ It is an exhausted subject,’ said Norman ; ‘ bubble and trouble 
are too obvious a rhyme.’ 

‘ Ha ! there it goes ! It will be over the house ! That’s right ! ’ 
Everyone joined in the outcry. 

‘ Whose is it ? ’ 

I Blanche’s — ’ 

‘Hurrah for Blanche! Well done, white Mayflower, there ! 
said the Doctor, ‘ that is what I meant. See the applause gained 
by a proud bubble that flies ! Don’t we all bow down to it, and 
waft it up with the whole force of our lungs, air as it is ; and when 
it fairly goes out of sight, is there any exhilaration or applause that 
surpasses ours ? ’ 

‘ The whole world being bent on making painted bubbles fly 
over the house,’ said Norman, far more thoughtfully than his father. 

‘ It is a fair pattern of life and fame.’ 

‘ I was thinking,’ continued Dr. May, ‘ what was the most 
unalloyed exultation, I remember.’ 

‘ Harry’s, when you were made Dux,’ whispered Ethel to her 
brother. 

‘ Not mine,’ said Norman, briefly. 

I I believe,’ said Dr. May, ‘ I never knew such glorification as 
when Aubrey Spencer climbed the poor old market-cross. We all 
felt ourselves made illustrious for ever in his person.’ 

‘ Nay, papa, when you got that gold medal must have been the 
grandest time ? ’ said Blanche, who had been listening. 

Dr. May laughed, and patted her. ‘ I, Blanche ? Why, I was 
excessively amazed, that is all, not in Norman’s way, but I had 


u 


THE DAISY CHAItf. 


been doing next to nothing to the very last, then fell into an agonj 
and worked like a horse, thinking myself sure of failure, and thal 
my mother and my uncle would break their hearts.’ 

‘ But when you heard that you had it ? ’ persisted Blanche. 

‘ Why, then I found I must be a much cleverer fellow than I 
thought for,’ said he, laughing ; ‘ but I was ashamed of myself, and 
of the authorities, for choosing such an idle dog, and vexed that 
other plodding lads missed it, who deserved it more than I.’ 

‘ Of course,’ said Norman, in a low voice, ‘that is what one 
always feels. I had rather blow soap-bubbles.’ 

‘ Where was Dr. Spencer ? ’ asked Ethel. 

‘ Not competing. He had been ready a year before, and had 
gained it, or I should have had no chance. Poor Spencer ! what 
would I not give to see him, or hear of him ? ’ 

‘ The last was — how long ago ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Six years, when he was setting off, to return from Poonsheda- 
gore,’ said Dr. May, sighing. ‘ I give him up ; his health was 
broken, and there was no one to look after him. He was the sort 
of man to have a nameless grave, and a name too blessed for fame.’ 

Ethel would have asked further of her father’s dear old friend, 
but there were sounds, denoting an arrival, and Margaret beckoned 
to them, as Miss Bivers, and her brother, were ushered into the 
drawing-room; and Blanche instantly fled away, with her basin, to 
hide herself in the school-room. 

Meta skipped out, and soon was established on the grass, an 
attraction to all the live creatures, as it seemed ; for the kitten 
came, and was caressed, till her own graceful Nipen was ready to 
fight with the uncouth Toby, for the possession of a resting-place 
on the skirt of her habit, while Daisy nestled up to her, as claiming 
a privilege, and Aubrey kept guard over the dogs. 

Meta enquired after a huge doll — Dr. Hoxton’s gift to Daisy, 
at the bazaar. 

‘ She is in Margaret’s wardrobe,’ was the answer, ‘ because Aubrey 
tied her hands behind her, and was going to offer her up on the 
nursery grate.’ 

‘ Oh ! Aubrey, that was too cruel ! ’ 

‘ No,’ returned Aubrey ; ‘ she was Iphigenia, going to be sacri- 
ficed.’ 

‘ Mary unconsciously acted Diana,’ said Ethel, ‘ and bore the 
victim away.’ 

‘ Pray, was Daisy a willing Clytemnestra ? ’ asked Meta. 

‘ Oh, yes, she liked it,’ said Aubrey, while Meta looked dis- 
comfited. 

‘ I never could get proper respect paid to dolls,’ said Margaret ; 
‘ we deal too much in their natural enemies.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Ethel, ‘ my only doll was like a heraldic lion, couped 
in all her parts.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN - . 


45 


1 Harry and Tom once made a general execution,’ said Flora ; 
4 there was a doll hanging to every baluster — the number made up 
with rag.’ 

George Rivers burst out laughing — his first sign of life ; and 
Meta looked as if she had heard of so many murders. 

‘ 1 can’t help feeling for a doll ! ’ she said. ‘ They used to be 
like sisters to me. I feel as if they were wasted on children, that 
see no character in them, and only call them Dolly.’ 

‘ I agree with you,’ said Margaret. ‘ If there had been no live 
dolls, Richard and I should have reared our doll family as 
judiciously as tenderly. There are treasures of carpentry still 
extant, that he made for them.’ 

‘ Oh ! I am so glad ! ’ cried Meta, as if she had found another 
point of union. ‘ If I were to confess — there is a dear old Rose in 
the secret recesses of my wardrobe. I could as soon throw away 
my sister — ’ 

‘ Ha ! ’ cried her brother, laying hold of the child, ‘ here, little 
Daisy, will you give your doll to Meta ? ’ 

I My name is Gertrude Margaret May,’ said the little round 
mouth. The fat arm was drawn back, with all a baby’s dignity, 
and the rosy face was hidden in Dr. May’s breast, at the sound of 
George Rivers’s broad laugh, and, ‘ Well done, little one! ’ 

Dr. May put his arm round her, turned aside from him, and 
began talking to Meta about Mr. Rivers. 

Flora and Norman made conversation for the brother ; and he 
presently asked Norman to go out shooting with him ; but, looked 
so amazed on hearing that Norman was no sportsman, that Flora 
tried to save the family credit, by mentioning Hector’s love of a 
gun, which caused their guest to make a general tender of sporting 
privileges; ‘Though,’ added he, with a drawl, ‘ shooting is rather 
a nuisanoe, especially alone.’ 

Meta told Ethel, a little apart, that he was so tired of going 
out alone that he had brought her here, in search of a companion. 

‘ He comes in at eleven o’clock, poor fellow, quite tired with 
solitude,’ said she, ‘ and comes to me to be entertained.’ 

‘ Indeed,’ exclaimed Ethel. ‘ What can you do ? ’ 

‘ What I can,’ said Meta, laughing. ‘ Whatever is not “ a hor 
rid nuisance ” to him.’ 

‘ It would be a horrid nuisance to me,’ said Ethel, bluntly, ‘ if 
my brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning.’ 

‘ Your brothers, oh ! ’ said Meta, as if that were very different; 

4 besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and 
grateful, when George will come to me at all, You see I have 
always been too young to be his companion, or find out what suited 
him, and now he is so very kind and good-natured to me.’ 

‘ But what becomes of your business ? 1 

I I get time, one way or another. There is the evening very 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


16 

often, wlien I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two 
hours, all to myself, yesterday night,’ said Meta, with a look of 
congratulation, ‘ and I had a famous reading of “ Thirlwall’s 
Greece ! ” ’ 

1 1 should think that such evenings were as had as the morn- 
mgs.’ 

1 Come, Ethel, don’t make me naughty. Large families, like 
yours, may have merry sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, 
ours are very pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home ; 
and we really hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. 
You can’t think how delighted papa is, to have him content to stay 
quietly with us so long. I must call him, to go back now, though, 
or papa will be kept waiting.’ 

When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the 
bright fairy sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling 
glance, and wave of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with 
his slow bend, and immobility of feature, she could not help saying 
that Meta’s life certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, 
valetudinarian father, and that stupid, idealess brother. 

‘ He is very amiable and good-natured,’ interposed Norman. 

1 Ha ! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot ! 
How he despised you for refusing- — as much as you despised him.’ 

‘ Speak for yourself,’ said Norman. 1 You fancy no sensible 
man likes shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men 
are capital sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie — you know what he 
is. When I bring him down here, you will see that there is no sort 
of sport that he is not keen after.’ 

1 This poor fellow will never be keen after anything,’ said Dr. 
May. ‘ I pity him ! Existence seems hard work to him ! ’ 

‘ We shall have baby calling him “ the detestable ” next,’ said 
Ethel. ‘ What a famous set-down she gave him.’ 

1 She is a thorough lady, and allows no liberties,’ said Dr. May. 

‘ Ah ! ’ said Margaret, ‘ it is a proof of what I want to impress 
on you. We really must leave off calling her Daisy, when strangers 
are there.’ 

* It is so much nicer,’ pleaded Mary. 

‘ The very reason,’ said Margaret, ‘ fondling names should bo 
kept for our innermost selves, not spread abroad, and made com- 
mon. I remember when I used to be called Peg-top — and Flora, 
Flossy — we were never allowed to use the names, when any visitor 
was near ; and we were asked if we could not be as fond of each 
other by our proper names. I think it was felt that there was a 
want of reserve, in publishing our pet words to other people.’ 

‘ Quite true,’ said Dr. May ; ‘ baby-names never ought to go be- 
yond home. It is the fashion to use them now ; and, besides the 
folly, it seems, to me, an absolute injury to a girl, to let her grow 
up, with a nick-name attached to her.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


47 


1 Aye ! ’ chimed in Norman, ‘ I hear men talking of Henny, and 
Loo, and the like ; and you can’t think how glad I have been, that 
my sisters could not he known by any absurd word ! ’ 

‘It is a case where self-respect would make others behave 
properly,’ said Flora. 

‘ True,’ said Dr. May ; ‘ but if girls won’t keep up their own 
dignity, their friends’ duty is to do it for them. The mischief is in 
the intimate friends, who blazon the words to every one.’ 

‘ And then they call one formal, for trying to protect the right 
name,’ said Flora. ‘ It is, one half of it, silliness, and, the other, ' 
affectation of intimacy.’ 

‘ Now, I know,’ said Mary, ‘ why you arc so careful to call Meta 
Miss Divers, to all the people here.’ 

' I should hope so,’ cried Norman, indignantly. 

‘ Why, yes, Mary,’ said Margaret, ‘ I should hope lady-like feel- 
ing would prevent you from calling her Meta before — ’ 

‘ The Andersons ! ’ cried Ethel, laughing. ‘ Margaret was just 
going to say it. We only want Harry to exact the forfeit! Poor 
dear little humming-bird ! It gives one an oppression on the chest, 
to think of her having that great do-nothing brother on her hands 
all day.’ 

‘ Thank you,’ said Norman, ‘ I shall know where I am not to 
look when I want a sister.’ 

‘ Aye,’ said Ethel, ‘ when you come yawning to me to find 
amusement for you, you will see what I shall do ! ’ 

‘ Stand over me with a stick while I print ABC for Cocksmoor, 

I suppose,’ said Norman. 

‘Well! why not? People are much better doing something 
than nothing.’ 

‘ What, you won’t even let me blow bubbles ! ’ said Norman. 

‘ That is too intellectual, as papa makes it,’ said Ethel. ‘ By- 
the-by, Norman,’ she added, as she had now walked with him a little 
apart, ‘ it always was a bubble of mine that you should try for the 
Newdigate Prize. Ha ? ’ as the colour rushed into his cheeks, ‘ you 
really have begun ! ’ 

‘ I could not help it, when I heard the subject given out for next 
year. Our old friend, Decius Mus.’ 

‘ Have you finished ? ’ 

1 By no means, but it brought a world of notions into my head, 
such as I could not but set down. Now, Ethel, do oblige me, do 
writo another, as we used in old times.’ 

‘ I had better not,’ said Ethel, standing thoughtful. ‘ If I throw 
myself into it, I shall hate every thing else, and my wits will bo 
wool-gathering. I have neither time nor poetry enough.’ 

‘ You used to write English verse.’ 

‘ I was cured of it.’ 

‘ How ? ’ 


in 


48 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ 1 wanted money for Cocksmoor, and after persuading papa, I 
got leave to send a ballad about a little girl, and a white rose, to 
that school magazine. I don’t think papa liked it, but there were 
some verses that touched him, and one had seen worse. It was 
actually inserted, and I was in high feather, till, oh ! Norman ! 
imagine Richard getting hold of this unlucky thing, without a no^ 
tion where it came from. Margaret put it before him, to see what 
he would say to it.’ 

‘ I am afraid it was not like a young lady’s anonymous compo 
sition in a story.’ 

‘ By no means. Imagine Ritchie picking my poor metaphors to 
pieces, and weighing every sentimental line ! And all in his dear 
old simplicity, because he wanted to understand it, seeing that Mar- 
garet liked it. He had not the least intention of hurting my feel- 
ings, but never was I so annihilated ! I thought he was doing it 
on purpose, till I saw how distressed he was when he found it out ; 
and, worse than all was, his saying at the end, that he supposed it 
was very fine, but he could not understand it.’ 

1 Let me see it.’ 

‘ Some time or other; but let me see Decius.* 

‘ Did you give up verses because Richard could not understand 
them ? ’ 

‘ No ; because I had other fish to fry. And I have not given 
them up altogether. I do scrabble down things that tease me by 
running in my head, when I want to clear my brains, and know what 
I mean ; but I can’t do it without sitting up at night, and that stu- 
pilies me before breakfast. And as to making bubbles of them, 
Ritchie has cured me of that ! ’ 

‘ It is a pity ! ’ said Norman. 

I Nonsense, let me see Decius. I know he is splendid.’ 

I I wish you would have tried, for all my best ideas are stolen 
from you.’ 

Ethel prevailed by following her brother to his room, and perch- 
ing herself on the window-sill, while he read his performance from 
many slips of paper. The visions of those boyish days had not been 
forgotten, the Vesuvius scenery was much as Ethel had once de- 
scribed it, but with far more force and beauty ; there was Decius 1 
impassioned address to the beauteous land he was about to leave, 
and the remembrances of his Roman hearth, his farm, his children, 
whom he quitted for the pale shadows of an uncertain Elysium. 
There was a great hiatus in the middle, and Norman had many more 
authorities to consult, but the summing up was nearly complete, and 
Ethel thought the last lines grand, as they spoke of the noble consul’s 
name living for evermore, added to the examples that nerve ardent 
souls to devote life, and all that is precious, to the call of duty. 
Fame is not their object. She may crown their pale brows, but 

the good of others, not their own, a beacon light to the world. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


49 


Self is no object of theirs, and it is the casting self behind that wins 
— not always the visible earthly strife, but the combat between good 
and evil. They are the true victors, and whether chronicled or 
forgotten, true glory rests on their heads, the sole true glory that 
man can attain, namely, the reflected beams that crown them as 
shadowy types of Him whom Decius knew not — the Prince who 
gave himself for His people, and thus rendered Heath, for Truth’s 
sake, the highest boon to mortal man. 

‘ Norman, you must finish it ! When will it be given in ? ’ 

1 Next spring, if at all, but keep the secret, Ethel. I cannot 
have my father’s hopes raised.’ 

‘ I’ll tell you of a motto,’ said Ethel. ‘ Ho you remember Mrs. 
Hemans mention of a saying of Sir Walter Scott — “ Never let me 
hear that brave blood has been shed in vain. It sends a roaring 
voice down through all time.” ’ 

1 If — ’ said Norman, rather ashamed of the enthusiasm which, 
almost approaching to the so-called “ funny state ” of his younger 
days, had trembled in his voice, and kindled his eye, 1 if you won’t 
et me put “ nasoitur ridiculus mus .” ’ 

‘ Too obvious,’ said Ethel. ‘ Hepend upon it every undergradu- 
ate has thought of it already.’ 

Ethel was always very happy over Norman’s secrets, and went 
about smiling over Hecius, and comparing her brother with such a 
one as poor Meta was afflicted with ; wasting some superfluous pity 
and contempt on the weary weight that was inflicted on the Grange. 

‘ What do you think of me ? ’ said Margaret, one afternoon. 
‘ I have had Mr. George Rivers here for two hours.’ 

‘ Alone ! what could bring him here ? ’ 

* I told him that everyone was out, but he chose to sit down, 
and seemed to be waiting.’ 

1 How could you get on ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! we asked a few questions, and brought out remarks, with 
great difficulty, at long intervals. He asked me if lying here was 
not a great nuisance, and, at last, he grew tired of twisting his 
moustache and went away.’ 

‘ I trust it was a call to take leave.’ 

1 No, he thinks he shall sell out, for the army is a great 
nuisance.’ 

1 You seem to have got into his confidence.’ 

< Yes, he said he wanted to settle down, but living with one’s 
father was such a nuisance.’ 

1 By-the-by ! ’ cried Ethel, laughing. 1 Margaret, it strikes me 
that this is a Humbiedikes’ courtship ! ’ 

‘ Of yourself? ’ said Margaret, slyly. 

‘ No, of Flora. You know, she has often met him at the Grange 
and other places, and she does contrive to amuse him, and make 


50 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


liim almost animated. I should not think he found her a great 
nuisance.’ 

‘ Poor man ! I am sorry for him ! ’ said Margaret. 

‘ Oh ! rejection will be very good for him, and give him some- 
thing to think of.’ 

‘ Flora will never let it come to that,’ said Margaret. ‘ But not 
one word about it, Ethel ! ’ 

Margaret and Etheldred kept their eyes open, and sometimes 
imagined, sometimes laughed at themselves for their speculations, 
and so October began; and Ethel laughed, as she questioned 
whether the Grange would feel the Hussar’s return to his quarters, 
as much as home would the departure of their scholar for Balliol. 


CHAPTER YI. 

So. Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And if you find a meaning there, 

Oh 1 whisper to your glass, and say, 

What wonder if he thinks me fair. 

Tennyson. 

Flora and Norman were dining with one of their county acquaint- 
ance, and Dr. May had undertaken to admit them on their return. 
The fire shone red and bright, as it sank calmly away, and the 
time-piece and clock on the stairs had begun their nightly duett of 
ticking, the crickets chirped in the kitchen, and the Doctor sat 
alone. His book lay with unturned pages, as he sat musing, with 
eyes fixed on the fire, living over again his own life, the easy bright 
days of his youth, when, without much pains on his own part, the 
tendencies of his generous affectionate disposition, and the influences 
of a warm friendship, and an early attachment, had guarded him 
from evil — then the period when he had been perfectly happy, and 
the sobering power of his position had been gradually working on 
him ; but though always religious and highly principled, the very 
goodness of his natural character preventing him from perceiving 
the need of self-control, until the shock that changed the whole 
tenor of his life, and left him, for the first time, sensible of his own 
responsibility, but, with inveterate habits of heedlessness and 
hastiness, that love alone give him force to combat. He was now 
a far gentler man. His younger children had never seen, his elder 
had long since forgotten, his occasional bursts of temper, but he 
suffered keenly from their effects, especially as regarded some of 
his children. Though Richard’s timidity had been overcome, and 
Tom’s more serious failures had been remedied, he was not without 
anxiety, and had a strange unsatisfactory feeling as regarded Flora. 
He could not feel that he had fathomed her ! She reminded him of 
his old Scottish father-in-law, Profesior Mackenzie, whom he had 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


51 

never understood, nor, if the truth were known, liked. Her deal- 
ings with the Ladies’ Committee were so like her grandfather’s 
canny ways in a public meeting, that he laughed over them — but 
they were not congenial to him. Flora was a most valuable person ; 
all that she undertook prospered, and he depended entirely on her for 
household affairs, and for the care of Margaret ; but, highly as he 
esteemed her, he was a little afraid of her cool prudence ; she never 
seemed to be in any need of him, nor to place any confidence in 
him, and seemed altogether so much older and wiser than he could 
feel himself — pretty girl as she was — and very pretty were her fine 
blue eyes and clear skin, set off by her dark brown hair. There 
arose the vision of eyes as blue, skin as clear, but of light blonde 
locks, and shorter, rounder, more dove-like form, open simple loving 
face, and serene expression, that had gone straight to his heart, 
when he first saw Maggie Mackenzie making tea. 

He heard the wheels, and went out to unbolt the doo/. Those 
were a pair for a father to be proud of — Norman, of fine suture, and 
noble looks, with his high brow, clear thoughtful eye, and grave 
intellectual eagle face, lighting into animation with his rare, sweet 
smile ; and Flora, so tall and graceful, and in her white dress, 
picturesquely half-concealed by her mantle, with flowers in her 
hair, and a deepened colour in her cheek, was a fair vision, as she 
came in from the darkness. 

‘ Well ! was it a pleasant party ? ’ 

Norman related the circumstances, while his sister remained 
silently leaning against the mantel-piece, looking into the fire, until 
he took up his candle, and bade them good night. Hr. May was 
about to do the same, when she held out her hand. £ One moment, 
if you please, dear papa,’ she said — £ I think you ought to know it.’ 

1 What, my dear ? ’ 

1 Mr. George Rivers, papa — ’ 

1 Ha ! ’ said Dr. May, beginning to smile. £ So that is what ho 
is at, is it? But what an opportunity to take.’ 

£ It was in the conservatory,’ said Flora — a little hurt, as her 
father discovered by her tone. 1 The music was going on, and I 
don’t know that there could have been — ’ 

£ A better opportunity, eh?’ said Dr. May, laughing; ‘well, 1 
should have thought it awkward ; was he very much discomposed ? ’ 

£ I thought,’ said Flora, looking down and hesitating, £ that he 
had better come to you.’ 

£ Indeed ! so you shifted the ungracious office to me. I am 
very glad to spare you, my dear ; but it was hard on him to raise 
his hopes.’ 

£ I thought,’ faultered Flora, £ that you could not disapprove— 

£ Flora — ’ and he paused completely confounded, while his 
daughter was no less surprised at the manner in which her news 


52 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


was received. Each waited for the other to speak, and Flora 
turned away, resting her head against the mantel-piece. 

‘ Surely,’ said he laying his hand on her shoulder, ‘ you do not 
mean that you like this man.’ 

‘ I did not think that you would he against it,’ said Flora, in a 
choked voice, her face still averted. 

‘ Heaven knows, I would not be against anything for your hap- 
piness, my dear,’ he answered ; 1 but have you considered what it 
would be to spend your life with a man that has not three ideas ; 
not a resource for occupying himself — a regular prey to ennui — one 
whom you could never respect ! ’ He had grown more and more 
vehement — and Flora put her handkerchief to her eyes, for telars of 
actual disappointment were flowing. 

‘ Come, come,’ he said, touched, but turning it off by a smilo 
1 we will not talk of it any more to-night. — It is your first offer, and 
you are flattered, but we know 

“ Colours seen by candle-light, 

Will not bear the light of day.” 

There, good night, Flora, my dear — we will have a tete-a-tete m 
the study before breakfast, when you have had time to look into 
your own mind.’ 

He kissed her affectionately, and went up-stairs with her, stop- 
ping at her door to give her another embrace, and to say, ‘ Bless 
you, my dear child, and help you to come to a right decision — ’ 

Flora was disappointed. She had been too highly pleased at her 
conquest to make any clear estimation of the prize, individually 
considered. Her vanity magnified her achievement, and she had 
come home in a flutter of pleasure, at having had such a position in 
society offered to her, and expecting that her whole family would 
share her triumph. Gratified by George Bivers’s admiration, she 
regarded him with favour and complacency ; and her habit of con- 
sidering herself as the most sensible person in her sphere, made her 
so regard his appreciation of her, that she was blinded to his 
inferiority. It must be allowed, that he was less dull with her than 
with most others. 

And, in the midst of her glory, when she expected her father to 
be delighted and grateful — to be received as a silly girl, ready to 
accept any proposal, her lover spoken of with scorn, and the ad- 
vantages of the match utterly passed over, was almost beyond 
endurance. A physician, with eleven children dependent on his 
practice, to despise an offer from the heir of such a fortune ! But 
that was his customary romance ! She forgave him, when it occur- 
red to her that she was too important, and valuable, to be easily 
spared ; and a tenderness thrilled through her, as she looked at the 
sleeping Margaret’s pale face, and thought of surrendering her and 
little Daisy to Ethel’s keeping. And what would become of the 


THE DAISY CHAIN". 


53 


house-keeping ? She decided, however, that feeling must not sway 
her — out of six sisters some must marry, for the good of the rest. 
Blanche and Daisy should come and stay with her, to be formed by 
the best society ; and, as to poor dear Ethel, Mrs. Bivers would 
rule the Ladies’ Committee for her with a high hand, and, perhaps, 
provide Cocksmoor with a school at her sole expense. What a 
useful, admirable woman she would be ! The Doctor would be 
the person to come to his senses in the morning, when he remem- 
bered Abbotstoke, Mr. Bivers, and Meta. 

So Flora met her father, the next morning, with all her ordinary 
composure, in which he could not rival her, after his sleepless, 
anxious night. His looks of affectionate solicitude disconcerted 
what she had intended to say, and she waited with downcast eyes, 
for him to begin. 

‘ Well, Flora,’ he said at last, ‘ have you thought ? ’ 

I Do you know any cause against it ? ’ said Flora, still looking 
down. 

I I know almost nothing of him. I have never heard anything 
of his character, or conduct. Those would be a subject of enquiry, 
if you wish to carry this on — ’ 

‘ I see you are averse,’ said Flora. 1 1 would do nothing 
against your wishes — ’ 

I My wishes have nothing to do with it,’ said Dr. May. 1 The 
point is — that I must do right, as far as I can, as well as try to 
secure your happiness ; and I want to be sure that you know what 
you are about.’ 

I I know he is not clever,’ said Flora ; 1 but there may be many 
solid qualities without talent.’ 

1 1 am the last person to deny it ; but where are these solid 
qualities ? I cannot see the recommendation ! ’ 

1 1 place myself in your hands,’ said Flora, in a submissive tone, 
which had the effect of making him lose patience. 

1 Flora, Flora ! why will you talk as if I were sacrificing you to 
some dislike or prejudice of my own ! Don’t you think I should 
only rejoice, to have such a prosperous home offered to you, if only 
the man were worthy ? ’ 

‘ If you do not think him so, of course, there is an end of it,’ 
said Flora, and her voice showed suppressed emotion. 

‘ It is not what I think, in the absence of proof, but what you 
think, Flora. What I want you to do is this — to consider the 
matter fairly. Compare him with — I’ll not say with Norman — but 
with Bichard, Alan, Mr. Wilmot. Do you think you could rely 
on him — come to him for advice ? ’ (Flora never did come to any- 
one for advice). ‘ Above all — do you think him likely to be a help, 
or a hindrance, in doing right ? ’ 

1 I think you under-rate him,’ said Flora, steadily ; ‘ but, of 


54 : 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


course, if you dislike it — though, I think, you would change your 
mind, if you knew him better — ’ 

‘ Well ! ’ he said, as if to himself, { it is not always the most 
worthy — ’ then continued, 1 1 have no dislike to him. Perhaps I 
may find that you are right. Since your mind is made up, I will 
do this .' first, we must be assured of his father’s consent, for they 
may very fairly object, since, what I can give you, is a mere nothing 
to them. Next, I shall find out what character he bears in his 
regiment, and watch him well myself; and, if nothing appear 
seriously amiss, I will not withhold my consent. But, Flora, you 
should still consider whether he shows such principle, ’and right 
feelipg, as you can trust to.’ 

1 Thank you, papa. I know you will do all that is kind.’ 

I Mind, you must not consider it an engagement, unless all be 
satisfactory.’ 

I I will do as you please.’ 

Ethel perceived that something was in agitation, but the fact 
did not break upon her till she came to Margaret, after the school- 
room reading, and heard Dr. May declaiming away, :.n the vehe- 
ment manner^ that always relieved him. 

‘ Such a cub ! ’ These were the words that met her ear ; and 
she would have gone away, but he called her — c Come in, Ethel ; 
Margaret says, you guessed at this affair ! ’ 

- At what affair ! ’ exclaimed Ethel. 1 Oh, it is about Flora. 
Poor man ; has he done it ? ’ 

‘ Poor ! He is not the one to be pitied ! ’ said her father. 

‘ You don’t mean that she likes him ? ’ 

1 She does though ! A fellow with no more brains than a tur- 
nip lantern ! ’ 

I She does not mean it ? ’ said Ethel. 

c Yes she does ! Very submissive, and proper spoken, of course, 
but bent on having him ; so there is nothing left for me but to con- 
sent — provided Mr. Elvers does, and he should turn out not to have 
done anything outrageous; but there’s no hope of that — he has 
not the energy. What can possess her ? What can she see to 
admire ? ’ 

‘ He is good-natured,’ said Margaret, ‘ and rather good-look- 
ing—’ 

‘ Flora has more sense. What on earth can be the attraction?’ 

I I am afraid it is partly the grandeur — ’ said Ethel. 

She broke off short, quite dismayed at the emotion she had ex- 
cited. Dr. May stepped towards her, almost as if he could have 
shaken her. 

‘ Ethel ! ’ h# cried, ‘ I won’t have such motives ascribed to your 
sister ! ’ 

Ethel tried to recollect what she had said that was so shocking, 
for the idea of Flora’s worldly motives was no novelty to her. They 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


55 


had appeared in too many instances ; and, though frightened at his 
aoger, she stood still, without unsaying her words. 

Margaret began to explain away. ‘ Ethel did not mean, dear 
papa — ’ 

1 No,’ said Dr. May, his passionate manner giving way to de- 
jection. ‘ The truth is, that I have made home so dreary, that my 
girls are ready to take the first means of escaping.’ 

Poor Margaret’s tears sprang forth, and, looking up imploringly, 
3he exclaimed, ‘ Oh, papa, papa 1 it was no want of happiness ! I 
could not help it. You know he had come before — ’ 

Any reproach to her had been entirely remote from his thoughts, 
and he was at once on his knees beside her, soothing and caressing, 
begging her pardon, and recalling whatever she could thus have in- 
terpreted. 

Meanwhile, Ethel stood unnoticed and silent, making no outward 
protestation, but with lips compressed, as in her heart of hearts, 
she passed the resolution — that her father should never feel this 
pain on her account. Leave him who might, she would never for- 
sake him ; nothing but the will of Heaven should part them. It 
might be hasty and venturesome. She knew not what it might cost 
her ; but, where Ethel had treasured her resolve to work for Cocks- 
moor, there she also laid up her secret vow — that no earthly object 
should be placed between her and her father. 

The ebullition of feeling seemed to have restored Dr. May’s 
calmness, and he rose, saying, ‘ I must go to my work ; the man is 
coming here this afternoon.’ 

‘ Where shall you see him ? ’ Margaret asked. 

‘ In my study, I suppose. I fear there is no chance of Flora’s 
changing her mind first. Or do you think one of you could talk 
to her, and get her fairly to contemplate the real bearings of the 
matter — ’ and, with these words, he left the room. 

Margaret and Ethel glanced at each other; and both felt the im- 
penetrability of Flora s nature, so smooth, that all thrusts glided off. 

1 It will be of no use,’ said Ethel ; ‘ and, what is more, she will 
not have it done.’ 

1 Pray try ; a few of your forcible words would set it in a new 
light.’ 

‘ Why ! Do you think she will attend to me, when she has not 
chosen to heed papa ? ’ said Ethel, with an emphasis of incredulity. 
‘ No ; whatever Flora does, is done deliberately, and unalterably.’ 

* Still, I don’t know whether it is not our duty,’ said Margaret. 

* More yours than mine,’ said Ethel. 

Margaret flushed up. ‘ Oh, no, I cannot ! ’ she said, always 
timid, and slightly defective in moral courage. She looked so 
nervous and shaken by the bare idea of a remonstrance with Flora, 
that Ethel could not press her ; and, though convinced that her 
representation would be useless, she owed that her conscience would 


56 


THE DAISY CHAIN’. 


rest better, after she had spoken. ‘But there is Flora, walking ic 
the garden with Norman,’ she said. ‘ No doubt, he is doing it.’ 

So Ethel let it rest, and attended to the children’s lessons, during 
which Flora came into the drawing-room, and practised her music, 
as if nothing had happened. 

Before the morning was over, Ethel contrived to visit Norman, in 
the dining-room, where he was wont to study, and asked him whether 
he had made any impression on Flora. 

‘ What impression do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Why, about this concern,’ said Ethel ; ‘ this terrible man, that 
makes papa so unhappy.’ 

‘ Papa unhappy ! Why, what does he know against him ? I 
thought the Biverses were his peculiar pets.’ 

‘ The Biverses ! As if, because one liked the sparkling stream, 
one must like a muddy ditch.’ 

• ‘What harm do you know of him?’ said Norman, with much 
surprise, and anxiety, as if he feared that he had been doing wrong, 
in ignorance. 

‘ Harm ! Is he not a regular oaf ? ’ 

‘ My dear Ethel, if you wait to marry till you find some one as 
clever as yourself, you will wait long enough.’ 

‘ I don’t think it right for a woman to marry a man decidedly 
her inferior.’ 

‘We have all learnt to think much too highly of talent,’ said 
Norman, gravely. 

‘ I don’t care for mere talent — people are generally more sensible 
without it ; but, one way or other, there ought to be a superiority on 
the man’s side.’ 

‘ Well, who says there is not ? ’ 

‘ My dear Norman ! Why, this George Bivers is really below 
the average ! you cannot deny that ! Bid you ever meet anyone so 
stupid ? ’ 

‘ Beally ! 5 said Norman, considering; and, speaking very inno- 
cently, ‘ I cannot see why you think so. I do not see that he is at 
all less capable of sustaining a conversation than Bichard.’ 

Ethel sat down, perfectly breathless with amazement and indig- 
nation. 

Norman saw that he had shocked her very much. ‘ I do not 
mean,’ he said, ‘ that we have not much more to say to Bichard; all 
I meant to say was, merely as to the intellect.’ 

‘ I tell you,’ said Ethel, ‘ it is not the intellect. Bichard ! why, 
you know how we respect, and look up to him. Bear old Bitchie ! 
with his goodness, and earnestness, and right judgment — to compare 
him to that man ! Norman ! Norman ! I never thought it of you ! ’ 

‘ You do not understand me, Ethel. I only cited Bichard, as a 
person who proves how little cleverness is needed to insure respect’ 

‘ And, I tell you, that cleverness is not the point’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


57 


' It is the only objection you have put forward.’ 

‘ I did wrong,’ said Ethel. 1 It is not the real one. It is earnest 
goodness that one honours in Eichard. Where do we find it in this 
man ? who has never done anything but yawn over his self-indul- 
gence. 

‘ Now, Ethel, you are working yourself up into a state of foolish 
prejudice. You, and papa, have taken a dislike to him; and you 
are overlooking a great deal of good safe sense, and right thinking. 
I know his opinions are sound, and his motives right. He has been 
under-educated, we all see, and is not very brilliant or talkative ; 
but, I respect Flora for perceiving his solid qualities.’ 

‘Very solid and weighty, indeed!’ said Ethel, ironically. ‘I 
wonder if she would have seen them in a poor Curate.’ 

‘ Ethel ! you are allowing yourself to be carried, by prejudice, a 
great deal too far. Are such imputations to be made, wherever 
there is inequality of means ? It is very wrong ! very unjust ! ’ . 

1 So papa said,’ replied Ethel, as she looked sorrowfully down. 
1 He was very angry with me for saying so. I wish I could help 
feeling as if that were the temptation.’ 

1 You ought,’ said Norman. ‘ You will be sorry, if you set 
yourself, and him, against it.’ 

* I only wish you to know what I feel ; and, I think, Margaret 
and papa do,’ said Ethel, humbly, 1 and then you will not think us 
more unjust than we are. We cannot see anything so agreeable 
or suitable in this man, as to account for Flora’s liking, and we do 
not feel convinced of his being good for much. That makes papa 
greatly averse to it, though he does not know any positive reason 
for refusing ; and we cannot feel certain that she is doing quite 
right, or for her own happiness.’ 

1 You will be convinced,’ said Norman, cheerfully. ‘ You will 
find out file good that is under the surface, when you have seen 
more of him. I have had a good deal of talk with him.’ 

A good deal of talk to him would have been more correct, if 
Norman had but been aware of it. He had been at the chief expense 
of the conversation with George Eivers, and had taken the sounds 
of assent, which he obtained, as evidences of his appreciation of all 
his views. Norman had been struggling so long against his old ha- 
bit of looking down on Eichard, and exalting intellect ; and had 
seen, in his Oxford life, so many ill-effects of the knowledge that 
puffeth up, that he had come to have a certain respect for dullness, 
per se } of which George Eivers easily reaped the benefit, when sur- 
rounded by the halo, which everything at Abbotstoke Grange bora 
in the eyes of Norman. 

He was heartily delighted at the proposed connection, and his 
genuine satisfaction not only gratified Flora, and restored the 
equanimity that had been slightly disturbed by her father, but it 
also reassured Ethel and Margaret* who could not help trusting in 


58 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


his judgment, and began to hope that G-eorge might be all ha 
thought him. 

Ethel, finding that there were two ways of viewing the gentleman, 
doubted whether she ought to express her opinion.- It was Flora’s 
disposition, and the advantages of the match, that weighed most 
upon her, and, in spite of her surmise having been treated as so 
injurious, she could not rid herself of the burthen. 

Dr. May was not so much consoled by Norman’s opinion, as 
Ethel expected. The corners of his mouth curled up a little with 
diversion, and though he tried to express himself glad, and con- 
fident in his son’s judgment, there was the same sort of involuntary 
lurking misgiving, with which he had accepted Sir Matthew Fleet’s 
view of Margaret’s case. 

There was no danger that Dr. May would not be kind and 
courteous to the young man himself. It was not his fault if he 
were a dunce, and Dr. May perceived that his love for Flora was 
real, though clumsily expressed. He explained that he could not 
sanction the engagement till he should be better informed of the 
young gentleman’s antecedents ; this was, as George expressed it, 
a great nuisance, but his father agreed that it was quite right, in 
some doubt, perhaps, as to how Dr. May might be satisfied. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head, 

Mine be the chip of purest white, 

Swan-like ; and, as her feathers light, 

When on the still wave spread ; 

And let it wear the graceful dress 
Of unadorned simpleness. 

Catherine Fanshawk's Parody on Grey. 

Nothing transpired to the discredit of Lieutenant Rivers. He had 
spent a great deal of money, but chiefly for want of something else 
to do, and, though he was not a subject for high praise, there was 
no vice in him — no more than in an old donkey — as Dr. May 
declared, in his concluding paroxysm of despair, on finding that, 
though there was little to reconcile him to the engagement, there 
was no reasonable ground for thwarting his daughter’s wishes. He 
argued the matter once more with her, and, finding her purpose 
fixed, he notified his consent, and the rest of the family were 
admitted to a knowledge of a secret which they had never sus- 
pected. 

Etheldred could not help being gratified with the indignation it 
excited. With one voice, Mary and Blanche declared that they 
would never give up the title of <l the detestable,” and would not 
make him any presents ; certainly, not watch-chains ! Miss Bracy, 


TJTE DAISY CHAIN. 


59 


rather alarmed, lectured them just enough to make them worse ; 
and Margaret, overhearing Blanche instructing Aubrey in her own 
impertinences, was obliged to call her to her sofa, and assure her 
that she was unkind to Flora, and that she must consider Mr. George 
Bivers as her brother. 

‘Never my brother like Harry ! ’ exclaimed Mary, indignantly. 

‘ No, indeed ; nor like Alan ! ’ exclaimed Blanche. ‘ And I won’t 
call him George, I am determined, if it is ever so ! ’ 

1 It will not matter to him what such little girls call him,’ said 
Margaret. 

Blanche was so annihilated, that the sound of a carriage, and of 
the door bell, was a great satisfaction to her. 

Meta Bivers came flying into the room, her beautiful eyes dancing, 
and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, as, a little timidly, she kissed 
Margaret ; while Ethel, in a confused way, received Mr. llivers, in 
pain for her own cold, abrupt manner, in contrast with his gentle, 
congratulating politeness. 

Meta asked, blushing, and with a hesitating voice, for their dear 
Flora ; Mary offered to call her, but Meta begged to go herself, and 
thus was spared the awkwardness that ensued. Ethel was almost 
vexed with herself, as ungrateful, when she saw Mr. Bivers so 
mildly kind, and so delighted, with the bland courtesy that seemed 
fully conscious of the favour that Flora had conferred on his son, 
and thankful to the Mays for accepting him. 

Margaret answered with more expression of gratification, than 
would have been sincere in Ethel ; but it was a relief, when Flora 
and Meta came in together, as pretty a contrast as could be seen ; 
the little dark-eyed fairy, all radiant with joy, clinging to the 
slender waist of Flora, whose quiet grace, and maidenly dignity, 
were never more conspicuous, than, as with a soft red mantling in 
her fair cheek, her eyes cast down, but with a simple, unaffected 
warmth of confidence and gratitude, she came forward to receive 
Mr. Bivers’s caressing, affectionate greeting. 

Stiffness was over when she came in, and Dr. May, who presently 
made his appearance, soon was much more at his ease than could 
have been hoped, after his previous declarations that he should 
never be able to be moderately civil about it to Mr. Bivers. People 
of ready sympathy, such as Hr. May and Margaret, have a great 
deal of difficulty with their sincerity spared them, by being carried 
along with the feelings of others. Ethel could not feel the same, 
and was bent on avoiding any expression of opinion ; she hoped 
that Meta’s ecstasies would all be bestowed upon her future sister- 
in-law; but Meta was eager for an interview with Ethel herself, 
and, as usual, gained her point. 

‘ Now then you are property of my own ! ’ she cried. ' May I 
uot take you all for sisters ? ’ 


60 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Etliel had not thought of this as a convenience of the connection, 
and she let Meta kiss her, and owned that it was very nice. 

I Ethel,’ said Meta, 1 1 see, and I wanted to talk to you. You 
don’t think poor George good enough for Flora.’ 

I I never meant to shew it,’ said Ethel. 

‘You need not mind,’ said Meta, smiling, ‘I was very much sur- 
prised myself, and thought it all a mistake. But I am so very 
glad, for I know it will make such a difference to him, poor fellow. 
I should like to tell you all about him, for no one else can very 
well, and you will like him better, perhaps. You know my grand- 
father made his own fortune, and you would think some of our 
relations very queer. My aunt Dorothy once told me all about it — 
papa was made to marry the partner’s daughter, and I fancy she 
could not have been much of a lady. I don’t think he could have 
been very happy with her, but she soon died, and left him with this 
one son, whom those odd old aunts brought up their own way. By- 
and-by, you know, papa came to be in quite another line of society, 
but when he married again, poor George had been so spoilt by these 
aunts, and was so big, and old, that my mother did not know what 
to make of him.’ 

1 A great lubberly boy,’ Ethel said, rather repenting the next 
moment. 

‘ He is thirteen years older than I am,’ said Meta, ‘ and you see 
it has been hard on him altogether ; he had not the education that 
papa would have given him if he had been born later ; and he can’t 
remember his mother, and has always been at a loss when with 
clever people. I never understood it till within the last two or 
three years, nor knew how trying it must be to see such a little chit 
as me made so much of — almost thrusting him aside. But you 
cannot think what a warm-hearted good fellow he is — he has never 
been otherwise than so very kind to me, and he was so very fond of 
his old aunt. Hitherto, he has had such disadvantages, and no real, 
sensible woman, has taken him in hand ; he does not care for papa’s 
tastes, and I am so much younger, that I never could get on with 
him at all, till this time ; but I do know that he has a real good 
temper, and all sorts of good qualities, and that he only needs to bo 
led right, to go right. Oh ! Flora may make anything of him, and 
we are so thankful to her for having found it out ! ’ 

‘ Thank you for telling me,’ said Ethel. ‘ It is much more sat- 
isfactory to have no shamming.’ 

Meta laughed, for Ethel’s sham was not too successful ; she con- 
tinued, ‘ dear Dr. May, I thought he would think his beautiful Flora 
not exactly matched — but tell him, Ethel, for if he once is sorry for 
poor George, he will like him. And it will really be the making of 
George, to be thrown with him and your brothers. Oh ! we arc so 
glad ! But I won’t teaze you to be so.’ 

‘ I can like it better now,’ said Ethel. You know Norman 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 61 

thinks very highly of your brother, and declares that it will all 
come out by*and-by.’ 

Meta clapped her hands, and said that she should tell her father, 
and Ethel parted with her, liking her , at least, better than ever. 
There was a comical scene between her and the Doctor, trying to 
define what relations they should become to each other, which Ethel 
thought did a good deal to mollify her father. 

The history of George’s life did more ; he took to pitying him, 
and pity w r as, indeed, akin to love in the good Doctor’s mind. In 
fact, George was a man who could be liked, when once regarded as 
a belonging — a necessity, not a choice ; for it was quite true that 
there was no harm in him, and a great deal of good-nature. His 
constant kindness, and evident liking for Margaret, stood him in 
good stead ; he made her a sort of confidante, bestowing on her his 
immeasurable appreciation of Flora’s perfections, and telling her 
how well he was getting on with “the old gentleman” — a name 
under which she failed to recognize her father. 

As to Tom, he wrote his congratulations to Ethel, that she 
might make a wedding present of her Etruscan vases, the Cupids on 
which must have been put there by anticipation. Richard heard 
none of the doubts, and gave kind, warm congratulations, promising 
to return home for the wedding ; and Mary and Blanche no sooner 
heard a whisper about bridesmaids, than all their opposition faded 
away, in a manner that quite scandalized Ethel, while it set Mar- 
garet on reminiscences of her having been a six-year old bridesmaid 
to Flora’s godmother, Mrs. Arnott. 

As to the gossip in the town, Ethel quite dreaded the sight of 
everyone without Flora to protect her, and certainly, Flora’s un- 
affected, quiet manner, was perfection, and kept off all too forward 
congratulations, while it gratified those whom she was willing to 
encourage. 

There was no reason for waiting, and Mr. Rivers was as impa- 
tient as his son, so an understanding arose that the wedding should 
take place near the end of the Christmas holidays. 

Flora shewed herself sensible and considerate. Always open- 
handed, her father was inclined to do everything liberally, and laid 
no restrictions on her preparations, but she had too much discretion 
to be profuse, and had a real regard for the welfare of the rest. She 
langhed with Ethel at the anticipations of the Stoneborough ladies 
that she must be going to London, and, at the requests, as a great 
favour, that they might be allowed the sight of her trousseau. Hei 
wedding-dress, white silk, with a white cashmere mantle, was, 
indeed, ordered from Meta’s London dress-maker ; but, for the rest, 
she contented herself with an expedition to Whitford, accompanied 
by Miss Bracy and her two enchanted pupils, and there laid in a 
stock of purchases, unpretending and in good taste, aiming only at 
what could be well done, and not attempting the decorative ward- 


62 


THE DAISY CHAIN'. 


robe of a great lady. Ethel was highly amused when the Miss An« 
dersons came for their inspection, to see their concealed disappoint- 
ment at finding no under garments trimmed with Brussels lace, nor 
pocket-handkerchiefs all open-work, except a centre of the size of a 
crown-piece, and the only thing remarkable, was Margaret’s beauti- 
ful marking in embroidery. There was some compensation in the 
costly wedding presents — Flora had reaped a whole harvest from 
friends of her own, grateful patients of her father, and the whole 
Bivers and Langdale connection ; but, in spite of the brilliant use- 
lossness of most of these, the young ladies considered themselves 
ill-used, thought Dr. May never would have been shabby, and were 
of opinion that, when Miss Ward had married her father’s surgical 
pupil, her outfit had been a far more edifying spectacle. 

The same moderation influenced Flora’s other arrangements. 
Dr. May was resigned to whatever might be thought most proper, 
stipulating only that he should not have to make a speech ; but 
Flora felt that, in their house, a grand breakfast would be an un- 
successful and melancholy affair. If the bride had been anyone else, 
she could have enjoyed making all go off well, but, under present 
circumstances, it would be great pain to her father and Margaret, 
a misery to Ethel, and something she dared not think of to the 
guests. She had no difficulty in having it dispensed with. George 
was glad to avoid “ a great nuisance.” Mr. Bivers feared the 
fatigue, and, with his daughter, admired Flora for her amiability, 
and, as to the home party, no words could express their gratitude 
to her for letting them off. Mary and Blanche did, indeed, look 
rather blank, but Blanche was consoled, by settling with Hector, the 
splendours in store for Alan and Margaret, and Mary cared the 
less, as there would be no Harry to enjoy the fun. 

The bride-maiden’s glory was theirs by right, though Ethel was 
an unsatisfactory chief, for such as desired splendour. She pro- 
tested against anything incongruous with January, or that could 
not be useful afterwards, and Meta took her part, laughing at the 
cruel stroke they were preparing for Bellairs. Ethel begged for 
dark silks and straw bonnets, and Flora said that she had expected 
to hear of brown stuff and grey duffle, but owned that they had 
better omit the ordinary muslin garb in the heart of winter. The 
baby bridesmaid was, at last, the chief consideration. Margaret 
suggested how pretty she and Blanche would look in sky-blue 
merino, trimmed with, swan’s-down. Meta was charmed with the 
idea, and though Ethel stuck out her shoulder-blades and poked 
out her head, and said she should look like the ugly duckling, she 
was clamorously reminded that the ugly duckling ended by being a 
swan, and promised that she should be allowed a bonnet of a rea- 
sonable size, trimmed with white, for Mr. Bivers’s good taste could 
endure, as little as Dr. May’s sense of propriety, the sight of a 
daughter without shade to her face. Ethel, finally, gave in, on 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


63 


being put in mind that her papa had a penchant for swan’s- 
down ; and, on Margaret’s promising to wear a dress of the same 
as theirs. 

Ethel was pleased and satisfied by Flora’s dislike of parade, and 
attention to the feelings of all. Passing over the one great fact ; 
the two sisters were more of one mind than usual, probably because 
all latent jealousy of Ethel had ceased in Flora’s mind. Hitherto, 
she had preferred the being the only practically useful person in the 
family, and had encouraged the idea of Ethel’s gaucherie ; but now 
she desired to render her sister able to take her place, and did all 
in her power to put her in good heart. 

For Etheldred was terrified at the prospect of becoming respon- 
sible housekeeper. Margaret could only serve as an occasional re- 
ference. Her morning powers became too uncertain to be depended 
on for any regular, necessary duty, and it would have oppressed her 
so much to order the dinners, which she never saw, that, though 
she offered to resume the office, Flora would not hear of Ethel’s 
consenting. If it were her proper business, Ethel supposed she 
could do it, but another hour of her leisure was gone, and what 
would become of them all, with her, a proverb for heedlessness, and 
ignorance of ordinary details. She did not know that these were 
more proverbial than actual, and, having a bad name, she believed 
in it herself. However, Flora made it her business to persuade her, 
that her powers were as good for household matters, as for books, 
or Cocksmoor ; instructed her in her own methodical plans, and 
made her keep house for a fortnight, with so much success, that she 
began to be hopeful. 

In the attendance on Margaret, the other great charge, old nurse 
was the security ; and Ethel, who had felt herself much less un- 
handy than before, was to succeed to the abode, in her room — 
Blanche being promoted, from the nursery, to the old attic. ‘ And,’ 
said Flora, consolingly, ‘ if dear Margaret ever should be ill, you 
may reckon on me.’ 

Miss Flora May made her last appearance at the Ladies’ Com- 
mittee, to hear the reply from the Principal of the College. It was 
a civil letter, but declined taking any steps in the matter, without 
more certain intelligence of the wishes of the Incumbent of the 
parish, or of the holders of the land in question. 

The Ladies abused all Colleges — as prejudiced old Bodies, and 
feared that it would be impossible to ask Mrs. Perkinson’s niece to 
take the school, while there was neither room nor lodging. So 
Miss Bxch recorded the correspondence, and the vote of censure, by 
which it was to be hoped the Ladies’ Committee of Market Stone- 
borough, inflicted a severe blow on the Principal and Fellows of 
M College. 

1 Never mind, Ethel,’ said Flora. £ I shall meet Sir Henry 
Walkinghame in London, and will talk to him. We shall yet 


64 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


astonish the Muses. If we can get the land without them, we shall 
be able to manage it our own way, without obligations.’ 

‘ You forget the money ! ’ 

‘ We will keep them from dissipating it — or that might be no 
harm ! A hundred pounds will be easily found, and we should then 
have it in our own hands. Besides, you know, I don’t mean to 
give up. I shall write a polite note to Mrs. Ledwich, begging to 
subscribe on my own account, and to retain my seat ! and you will 
see what we shall do.’ 

‘ You mean to come down with the external authority,’ said Ethel, 
smiling. 

‘ True ! and though my driving in with a pair of horses may make 
little difference to you, Ethel, depend upon it, Mrs. Ledwich will be 
the more amenable. Whenever I want to be particularly impres- 
sive, I shall bring in that smelling-bottle, with the diamond stopper 
that won’t come out, and you will find that carries all before it.’ 

‘ A talisman ! ’ said Ethel laughing. ‘ But I had rather they 
yielded to a sense of right ! ’ 

1 So had I,’ said Flora. ‘ Perhaps you will rule them that way ? ’ 

‘ Not I ! ’ cried Ethel, terrified. 

‘ Then you must come to me, and secondary motives. Seriously 
— I do mean that George should do something for Stoneborough ; 
and, in a position of influence, I hope to be able to be useful to my 
poor old town. Perhaps we shall have the Minster restored.’ 

Flora did wish it. She did love Stoneborough, and was sincerely 
interested for Cocksmoor. She thought she worked earnestly for 
them, and that her situation would be turned to their profit ; but 
there was something, for which she worked more earnestly. Had 
Flora never heard of the two masters, whom we cannot serve at the 
same time ? 

Bichard came home for c a Parson’s week,’ so as to include the 
wedding. He looked very fresh and youthful; but his manner, 
though still gentle and retiring, had lost all that shrinking diffidence, 
and had, now, a very suitable grave composure. Everybody was 
delighted to have him; and Ethel, more than anyone, except 
Margaret. What floods of Cocksmoor histories were poured upon 
him; and what comparing of notes about his present school- 
children ! He could not enter into the refinements of her dread 
of the Ladies’ Committee, and thought she might be thankful 
if the school were built by any proper means ; for, if Cherry Elwood 
were retained, and the ladies prevented from doing harm, he did not 
understand why Ethel should wish to reject all assistance, that did 

not come in a manner she admired. He never would comprehend 

so Ethel gave it up — feared she was again jealous and self-sufficient, 
and contented herself with the joy that his presence produced at 
Cocksmoor, where the children smiled, blushed, and tittered, with 
ecstasy, whenever he even looked at one of them. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


65 


Richard was not allowed to have a Sunday of rest. His 
father apologized for having made an engagement for him — as 
Mr. Ramsden was unwell, and the school Clergy were all absent, 
so that he could do no otherwise than assist in the service. 
Richard coloured, and said that he had brought no sermon ; and he 
was, in fact, deprived of much of his sisters’ company, for com- 
position was not easy to him, and the quantity of time he spent on 
it, quite alarmed Norman and Ethel, who both felt rather nervous on 
the Sunday morning, but agreed that preaching was not everything. 

Ethel could not see well, as far as the reading desk, but she saw 
her father glance up, take off his spectacles, wipe them, and put 
them away; and she could not be displeased, though she looked 
reproof at Blanche’s breathless whisper, ‘ Oh, he looks so nice ! ’ 
Those white folds did truly sit well, with the meek, serious 
expression of the young Deacon’s fair face, and made him, as his 
sisters afterwards said, like one of the solemnly peaceful angel- 
carvings of the earlier ages. 

His voice was sweet and clear, and his reading full of quiet 
simplicity and devotion, such as was not often heard by that con- 
gregation, who were too much used, either to carelessness, or to 
pomposity. The sermon made his brother and sister ashamed of 
their fears. It was an exposition of the Gospel for the day, 
practical and earnest, going deep, and rising high, with a clearness 
and soberness, yet with a beauty and elevation, such as Norman and 
Ethel had certainly not expected — or, rather, they forgot all their 
own expectations, and Richard himself, and only recollected their 
own hearts, and the great future before them. 

Even Blanche and Aubrey told Margaret a great deal about it, 
and declared that, if Richard preached every Sunday, they should 
like going to Church much better. 

When Dr. May came in, some time after, he was looking much 
pleased. 1 So, Mr. Ritchie,’ he said, ‘ you have made quite a sensation 
— everyone shaking me by the hand, and thanking me for my son’s 
sermon. You will be a popular preacher at last ! ’ 

Richard blushed distressfully, and quoted the saying, that it 
would be the true comfort to hear that people went home, thinking 
of themselves, rather than of the sermon. This put an end to the 
subject ; but the Doctor went over it again, most thoroughly, with 
his other children, who were greatly delighted. 

Flora’s last home Sunday ! She was pale and serious, evidently 
feeling much, though seeking no tete a tetes, and chiefly engrossed 
with waiting on Margaret, or fondling little Gertrude. No one saw 
the inside of her mind — probably, she did not herself. On the out- 
side was a very suitable pensiveness, and affection for all that she 
was leaving. The only one in the family, to whom she talked 
much, was Norman, who continued to see many perfections in 
Gfeorge, and contrived, by the force of his belief, to impress the 


60 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


same on the others ; and to make them think his great talent foi 
silence, such a proof of his discretion, that they were not staggei ed, 
even by his shy blundering exclamation, that his wedding would be 
a great nuisance — a phrase which, as Dr. May observed, was, to him, 
what Est il possible was to his namesake of Denmark. 

Nobody wished for any misgivings, so Richard was never told of 
any, though there was a careful watch kept, to see what were his 
first impressions. None transpired, except something about good 
nature, but it was shrewdly believed that Richard and G-eorge, being 
much alike in shy unwillingness to speak, had been highly satisfied 
with the little trouble they had caused to each other, and so had come 
to a tacit esteem. 

There was very little bustle of preparation. Excepting the pack- 
ing, everything went on much as usual, till the Thursday morning, 
and then the children were up early, ^refreshing the Christmas 
hollies, and working up their excitement, only to have it damped 
by the suppressed agitation of their elders at the breakfast-table. 

Dr. May did not seem to know what he was about ; and Flora 
looked paler and paler. She went away before the meal was over, 
and, when Ethel went to the bed-room, shortly after, she found that 
she had fairly broken down, and was kneeling beside Margaret’s 
sofa, resting her head on her sister’s bosom, and sobbing — as Ethel 
had never seen her weep, except on that dreadful night, after their 
mother’s death. 

In a person ordinarily of such self-command as Flora, weeping was 
a terrible thing, and Margaret was much distressed and alarmed ; but 
the worst had passed before Ethel came up, and Flora was able to 
speak. 1 Oh ! Margaret ! I canno tleave you ! Oh ! how happy we 
have been — ’ 

‘ You are going to be happier, we trust, dearest,’ said Margaret, 
fondly. 

‘ Oh ! what have I done ? It is not worth it ! ’ 

Ethel thought she caught those words ; but, no more, Mary’s step 
was heard, and Flora was on her feet, instantly, composing herself 
rapidly. She shed no more tears, but her eyelids were very heavy, 
and her face softened, in a manner that, though she was less pretty 
than usual, was very becoming under her bridal- veil. She recovered 
calmness, and even cheerfulness, while reversing the usual order of 
things, and dressing her bridemaids, who would never have turned 
out fit to be seen, but for the exertions of herself, Margaret, and 
Miss Bracy. Ethel’s long Scotch bones, and Mary’s round, dumpy 
shapelessness, were, in their different ways, equally hard to over- 
come ; and the one was swelled out with a fabulous number of 
petticoats, and the other pinched in, till she gasped and screamed 
for mercy, while Blanche and Gertrude danced about, beautiful to 
behold, under their shady hats : and presently, with a light tap at 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 67 

the door, Meta Rivers stepped in, looking so pretty, that all felt, 
that to try to attain to such an appearance, was vain. 

Timid in her affection, she hardly dared to do more than kiss 
them, and whisper her pretty caressing words to each. There was 
no more time — Dr. Hoxton’s carriage was come to take up the bride. 

Ethel did as she was told, without much volition of her own ; and 
she quitted the carriage, and was drawn into her place by Norman, 
trusting that Meta would not let her do wrong, and relieved that, 
just in front of her, were the little ones, over whose heads she could 
see her father, with Flora’s veiled bending figure. 

That pause, while the procession was getting into order, the slow 
movement up the centre aisle, the week-day atmosphere of the 
Church, brought back to her thoughts a very different time, and 
one of those strange echoings on the mind, repeated in her ears the 
words, ‘ For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth 
himself in vain — ’ 

There was a little pause — George did not seem to be forth- 
coming, and Meta turned round, rather uneasily, and whispered 
something about his having been so nervous. However, there he 
was, looking exceedingly red, and very sheepish, and disposed to 
fall back on his best-man, Norman, whose countenance was at *the 
brightest — and almost handsome. 

Dr. Hoxton performed the ceremony, “ assisted by ” Richard. 
It had been Flora’s choice ; and his loud sonorous voice was thought 
very impressive. Blanche stood the nearest, and looked happy, 
and important, with Flora’s glove. Gertrude held Mary’s hand, and 
gazed straight up into the fretted roof, as if that were to her the chief 
marvel. Ethel stood and knelt, but did not seem, to herself, to 
have the power of thinking, or feeling. She saw and heard — that 
was all; she could no£ realize. 

They drew her forward, when it was over, to sign her name, as 
witness. She took up the pen, looked at Flora May, written for 
the last time, and found her hand so trembling, that she said, half- 
smiling, that she could not write. Mary was only too well pleased 
to supply the deficiency. Dr. May looked- at her anxiously, and 
asked whether she felt overcome. 

‘ No, papa. I did not know my hand was shaky.’ 

He took it into his, and pressed it. Ethel knew, then, how much 
had been undeveloped in her own mind, catching it, as it were, from 
his touch, and look. The thought of his past joy — the sad fading 
of hope for Margaret — the fear and doubt for their present bride — 
above all, the sense that the fashion of this world passeth away ; 
and that it is not the outward scene, but our bearing in it, that is to 
last for ever. 

The bells struck up, each peal ending with a crash, that gave 
Ethel some vague idea of fatality; and they all came back to the 
house, where Margaret was ready, in the drawing-room, to receive 


68 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


them, looking very pretty in her soft blue dress, which especially 
became her fair complexion, and light brown hair. Ethel did not 
quite like the pink colour on her cheeks, and feared that she had 
been shaken by Flora’s agitation, in the morning ; but she was very 
calm and bright, in the affectionate greeting with which she held 
out her hands to the bride and bridegroom, as they came in. 

Mr. Rivers and Meta were the only guests, and, while Meta 
was seized by the children, Margaret lay talking to Mr. Rivers, 
George standing upright and silent behind her sofa, like a sentinel. 
Flora was gone to change her dress, not giving way, but nervous 
and hurried, as she reiterated parting directions rbcut household 
comforts to Ethel, who stood by the toilette-table, sticking a pin 
into the pincushions and drawing it out again, as if solely intent on 
making it always fit into the same hole, while Mary dressed Flora, 
packed, flew about, and was useful. 

As they came down stairs, Ethel found that Flora was trembling 
from head to foot, and leaning on her ; Dr. May stood at the foot 
of the stairs, and folded his daughter in a long embrace ; Flora gave 
herself up to it as if she would never bear to leave it. Did a flash 
come over her then, what the father was, whom she had held 
cheaply ? what was the worth of that for which she had exchanged 
such a home ? She spoke not a word, she only clung tightly — if 
her heart failed her — it was too late. “ Bless you ! my child ! ” he 
said at last. “ Only be what your mother was ! ” 

A coming tread warned them to part. There was a tray of 
luncheon for the two who were about to depart, and the great snow- 
white cake was waiting for Flora to cut it. She smiled, accom- 
plished that feat steadily, and Norman continuing the operation, 
Aubrey guided Gertrude in handing round the slices. George did 
full justice thereto, as well as to the more solid viands. Flora 
could taste nothing, but she contrived to smile and say it was too 
early. She was in haste to have it over now, and, as soon as George 
had finished, she rose up, still composed and resolved, the last kisses 
were given — Gertrude was lifted up to her, after she was in the 
carriage for the very last, when George proposed to run away with 
her also, whereupon Daisy kicked and screamed, and was taken 
back in haste. The door was shut, and they drove off, bound for 
the Continent, and then Mary, as if the contingency of losing Flora 
had only for the first time occurred to her as the consequence of 
the wedding, broke out into a piteous fit of sobbing — rather too 
unrestrained, considering her fourteen years. 

Poor Mary, she was a very child still ! They pulled her into 
the study, out of the way of Mr. Rivers, and Meta had no sooner 
Baid how Flora would soon come home and live at the Grange, and 
talked of the grand school-feast, to which she was at once going tc 
take her friends, than the round rosy face drew out of its melan- 
choly puckers into smiles, as Mary began to tell the delight caused 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


69 


by the invitations which she had conveyed. That was to be a feast 
indeed — all the Abbotstoke children — all Flora’s class at Stone- 
borough, and as many Cocksmoor scholars as could walk so far, 
were to dine on Christmas fare, at one o’clock, at the Grange, and 
Meta was in haste to be at home to superintend the feast. 

Mary, Blanche, and Aubrey went with her, under the keeping 
of Miss Bracy ; the boys were to follow. She had hoped for Ethel, 
but on looking at her, ceased her coaxing importunity. 

‘ I see,’ she said, kindly; 4 even school children will not be so 
good for you as peace.’ 

‘ Thank you,’ said Ethel, 4 1 should lik * to be quiet till the 
evening, if you will let me off. It is very kind in you.’ 

‘ I ought to know how to pity you,’ said Meta, 4 I who have 
gained what you have lost.’ 

4 1 want to think too,’ said Ethel. 4 It is the beginning to me 
of a new life, and I have not been able to look at it yet.’ 

4 Besides, Margaret will want you. Poor Margaret — has it 
been very trying to her ? ’ 

4 1 fear so, but I shall keep out of her way, and leave her td a 
quiet afternoon with Kichard. It will be the greatest treat to those 
two to be together.’ 

4 Very well, I will carry off the children, and leave the house 
quiet. ’ 

And quiet it was in another hour — Gertrude walking with tho 
nurses, Dr. May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbotstoke, 
except Bichard and Margaret down-stairs ; and Ethel, who, while 
arranging her properties in her new room, had full leisure to lay 
out before herself the duties that had devolved on her, and to 
grapple with them. She recalled the many counsels that she had 
received from Flora, and they sounded so bewildering, that she 
wished it had been Conic sections, and then she looked at a Hebrew 
grammar that Norman had given her, and gave a sigh as she slipped 
it into the shelf of the seldom used. She looked about the room, 
cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burnt the last torn 
envelope, that no relic of packing and change might distress Mar- 
garet’s eyes for order — then feeling at once desolate and intrusive, 
she sat down in Flora’s fire-side chair, opened her desk, and took 
out her last time-table. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it 
aside, and rising, knelt down. Again seating herself, she resumed 
her paper, took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each 
hour of each day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when 
hitherto she had been free, was one sacrifice — it must go now, to 
ordering dinner, seeing after stores, watching over the children’s 
clothes, and the other nondescripts, which, happily for her, Flora 
had already reduced to method. The other loss was the spare time 
between the walk and tea ; she must not spend that in her own 
room now, or there would be no one to sit with Margaret, or keep 


70 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


the little ones from being troublesome to her. Ethel had often 
had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in the 
evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it 
up for good ! that was the cure for temper, but it had been valuable 
as something of her own ! She would have been thankful could 
she have hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she 
knew was utterly improbable — boys, holidays, callers, engagements, 
Dr. May, would all conspire to turn half her days upside down, and 
Cocksmoor itself must often depend not only on the weather, but 
on home doings. Two or three notes she wrote at the foot of her 
paper. 

N. B. These are a standard — not a bed of Procractes. 

Musts — To be first consulted. — Mays — last. Ethel May’s last of all. 

If I cannot do everything — omit the self-chosen. 

Mem — Neither hurry when it depends on myself, nor fidget when it depends 
on others. 

Keep a book going, to pacify myself. 

Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a 
long sigh, and wondered where Flora was ; and next, as she was 
fairly fagged, mind and body, she threw herself back in the arm- 
chair, took up a railway novel that Hector had brought home, and 
which they had hidden from the children, and repaired herself with 
the luxury of an idle reading. 

Margaret and Richard likewise spent a peaceful, though pensive 
afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to 
him, and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery 
had so melted away, that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare 
Mr. Ernescliffe for the disappointment, and each that sh? received 
in return was so sanguine and affectionate, that the very fondness 
was as much grief as joy. She could not believe that he took in 
the true state of the case, or was prepared to perceive that she 
could never be his wife, and she wanted Richard to write one of his 
clear, dispassionate statements, such as carried full conviction, and 
to help to put a final end to the engagement. 

‘ But why , 5 said Richard — c why should you wish to distress 
him ? ’ 

1 Because I cannot bear that he should be deceived, and should 
feed on false hopes. Do you think it right, Richard ? 5 

‘ I will write to him, if you like,’ said Richard ; 1 but I think 
he must pretty well know the truth from all the letters to Harry 
and to himself.’ 

‘ It would be so much better for him, to settle his mind at once,’ 
said Margaret. 

‘ Perhaps he would not think so — ’ 

There was a pause, while Margaret saw that her brother was 
thinking. At last, he said, £ Margaret, will you pardon me? I do 
think that this is a little restlessness. The truth has not been 


THE DAISY CHAIN, 


71 


kept from him, and I do not see that we are called to for^e it on 
him. He is sensible and reasonable, and will know how to judge 
when he comes home.’ 

‘ It was to try to save nim the pang,’ murmured Margaret. 

‘ Yes ; but it will be worse far away than near. I do not mean 
that we should conceal the fact, but you have no right to give him 
up before he comes home. The whole engagement was for the time 
of his voyage.’ 

‘ Then you think I ought not to break it off before his return ? ’ 

‘ Certainly not.’ 

c It will be pain spared — unless it should be worse by-and-by.’ 

‘ I do not suppose we ought to look to by-and-by,’ said Richard. 

‘ How so.’ 

‘ Do the clearly right thing, for the present, I mean,’ he said, 
‘ without anxiety for the rest. How do we — any of us — know what 
may be the case in another year ? ’ 

‘Do not flatter me with hopes,’ said Margaret, sadly smiling; 
‘ I have had too many of them.’ 

‘ No,’ said Richard; ‘I do not think jbu will ever get well. 
But so much may happen — ’ 

‘ I had rather have my mind made up once for all, and resign 
myself,’ said Margaret. 

‘ His will is sometimes that we should be uncertain,’ said Richard. 

‘ And that is the most trying,’ said Margaret. 

‘ Just so ;’ and he paused tenderly. 

‘ I feel how much has been right,’ said Margaret. ‘ This wed- 
ding has brought my real character before me. I feel what I should 
have been. You have no notion how excited and elated I can get 
about a little bit of dress out of the common way for myself, or 
others,’ said she, smiling — ‘ and then all the external show and 
things belonging to station — I naturally care much more for them 
than even Flora does. Ethel would bear all those things as if they 
did not exist — I could not.’ 

‘ They would be a temptation ? ’ 

‘ They would once have been. Yes, they would now,’ said Mar- 
garet. ‘ And government, and management, and influence — you 
would not guess what dreams I used to waste on them, and now 
here am I set aside from it all, good for nothing but for all you 
dear ones to be kind to.’ 

‘ They would not say so,’ said Richard, kindly. 

‘ Not say it, but I feel it. Papa and Ethel are all the world to 
each other — Richard, I may say it to you — There has been only 
one thing more hard to bear than that — Don’t suppose there was a 
moment’s neglect, or disregard ; but when first I understood that 
Ethel could be more to him than I — then I could not always feel 
rightly. It was the punishment for always wanting to be first.’ 


72 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ My father would be grieved that you had the notion. You 
should not keep it.’ 

1 He does not know it is so,’ said Margaret ; £ I am his first care, 
I fear, his second grief; but it is not in the nature of things that 
Ethel should not be more his comfort and companion. Oh ! I am 
glad it was not she who married. What shall we do when she goes ? ’ 

This came from Margaret’s heart, so as to shew that, if there 
had once been a jealous pang of mortification, it had been healed by 
overflowing, unselfish affection, and humility. 

They went off to praise Ethel, and thence to praise Norman, and 
the elder brother and sister, who might have had some jealousy of 
the superiority of their juniors, spent a good happy hour in dwelling 
on the shining qualities they loved so heartily. 

And Richard was drawn into talking of his own deeper thoughts, 
and Margaret had again the comfort of clerical counsel — and now 
from her own most dear brother ! So they sat till darkness closed 
in, when Ethel came down, bringing Gertrude and her great favour, 
very full of chatter, only not quite sure whether she had been bride, 
bridemaid, or bridegroom. 

The school-room set, with Tom and Aubrey, came home soon 
after, and tongues went fast with stories of roast-beef, plum-pudding, 
and blindman’s-buff. How the dear Meta had sent a cart to Cocks- 
moor to bring Cherry herself, and how many slices everybody had 
eaten, and how the bride’s health had been drunk by the children in 
real wine, and how they had all played, Norman and all, and how Hec- 
tor had made Blanche bold enough to extract a raisin from the flam- 
ing ? snap-dragon.— It was not half told when Dr. May came home, 
and Ethel went up to dress for her dinner at Abbotstoke, Mary 
following to help her, and continue her narration, which bade fair 
to entertain Margaret the whole evening. 

Dr. May, Richard, and Ethel, had a comfortable dark drive to 
the Grange, and, on arriving, found Hector deep in “ Wild Sports 
of the West,” while Norman and Meta were sitting over the fire 
talking, and Mr. Rivers was resting in his library. 

And when Ethel and Meta spent the time before the gentlemen 
came in from the dining-room, in a happy tete a tete , Ethel learnt 
that the fire-light dialogue had been the pleasantest part of the 
whole day, and that Meta had had confided to her the existence of 
Decius Mus — a secret which Ethel had hitherto considered as her 
own peculiar property, but she supposed it was a pledge of the 
sisterhood, which Meta professed with all the house of May. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


73 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The rest all accepted the kind invitation, 

And much bustle it caused in the plumed creation ; 

Such ruffling of feathers, such pruning of coats, 

Such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats. 

Such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions, 

Had never been known in the biped dominions. 

Peacock at IIomk 

Etiieldred was thankful for that confidence to Meta Rivers, for 
without it, she would hardly have succeeded in spurring Norman 
up to give the finishing touches to Decius, and to send him in. If 
she talked of the poem as the devotion of Hecius, he was willing 
enough, and worked with spirit, for he liked the ideas, and enjoyed 
the expressing them, and trying to bring his lines to his notion of 
perfection, but if she called it the “ Newdigate,” or the “ Prize 
Poem,” and declared herself sure it would be successful, he yawned, 
slackened, leant back in his chair, and began to read other people’s 
poetry, which Ethel was disrespectful enough not to think nearly 
as good as his own. 

It was completed at last, and Ethel stitched it up with a narrow 
red and white ribbon — the Balliol colours; and set Meta at him till 
a promise was extorted that he would send it in. 

And, in due time, Ethel received the following note : 

My dear Ethel, — 

My peacock bubble has flown over the house. Tell them all 
about it. Your affectionate, N. W. M. 

They were too much accustomed to Norman’s successes to be 
extraordinarily excited ; Ethel would have been much mortified if 
the prize had been awarded to anyone else, but, as it was, it came 
rather as a matter of course. The Doctor was greatly pleased, and 
said he should drive round by Abbotstoke to tell the news there, 
and then laughed beyond measure to hear that Meta had been in 
the plot, saying, he should accuse the little humming-bird of being 
a magpie, stealing secrets. 

By this time, the bride and bridegroom were writing that they 
thought of soon returning — they had spent the early spring at Paris, 
had wandered about in the south of France, and now were at Paris 
again. Flora’s letters were long, descriptive, and affectionate, and 
she was eager to be kept fully informed of everything at home. As 
soon as she heard of Norman’s success, she wrote a whole budget of 
letters, declaring that she and George would hear of no refusal ; 
they were going to spend a fortnight at Oxford for the Commemo- 
ration, and must have Meta and Ethel with them to hear Norman’s 
poem in the theatre. 

Hr. May, who already had expressed a hankering to run up for 


74 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


the day, and take Ethel with him, was perfectly delighted at tha 
proposal, and so was Mr. Rivers, hut the young ladies made many 
demurs. Ethel wanted Mary to go in her stead, and had to he 
told that this would not he by any means the same to the other 
parties — she could not hear to leave Margaret; it was a long time 
since there had been letters from the Alcestis, and she did not 
like to miss being at home when they should come ; and Meta, on 
her side, was so unwilling to leave her father, that, at last, Dr. 
May scolded them both for a pair of conceited, self-important dam- 
sels, who thought nothing could go on without them; and next, 
compared them to young birds, obliged to be shoved by force into 
flying. 

Meta consented first, on condition that Ethel would ; and Ethel 
found that her whole house would be greatly disappointed if she 
refused, so she proceeded to be grateful, and then discovered how 
extremely delightful the plan was. Oxford, of which she had 
heard so much, and which she had always wished to see ! And 
Norman’s glory — and Meta’s company — nay, the very holiday, 
and going from home, were charms enough for a girl of eighteen, 
who had never been beyond Whitford in her life. Besides, to 
crown all, papa promised that, if his patients would behave well, 
and not want him too much, he would come up for the one great 
day. 

Mr. and Mrs. George Rivers came to Abbotstoke to collect their 
party. They arrived by a railroad, whose station was nearer to 
Abbotstoke than to Stoneborough, therefore, instead of their visiting 
the High-street by the way, Dr. May, with Ethel, and Mary, were 
invited to dine at the Grange, the first evening — a proposal, at least, 
as new and exsiting to Mary, as was the journey to Oxford, to her 
sister. 

The two girls went early, as the travellers had intended to 
arrive before luncheon, and, though Ethel said few words, but let 
Mary rattle on with a stream of conjectures and questions, her 
heart was full of longings for her sister, as well as of strange 
doubts and fears, as to the change that her new life might have 
made in her. 

4 There ! there ! ’ cried Mary. c Yes ! it is Flora ! Only she 
has her hair done in a funny way ! ’ 

Flora and Meta were both standing on the steps before the con- 
servatory, and Mary made but one bound before she was hugging 
Flora. Ethel kissed her without so much violence, and then saw 
that Flora was looking. very well and bright, more decidedly pretty 
and elegant than ever, and with certainly no diminution of aflec* 
tion ; it was warmer, though rather more patronizing. 

4 How natural you 'look ! ’ was her first exclamation, as she 
held Mary’s hand, and drew Ethel’s arm into hers. 4 And how is 
Margaret ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


75 


‘ Pretty well — but the lieat makes her languid — ’ 

I Is there any letter yet ? ’ 

‘No—’ 

I I do not see any cause for alarm — letters are so often detained, 
but, of course, she will be anxious. — Has she had pain in the back 
again.’ 

1 Sometimes, but summer always does her good — ’ 

‘ I shall see her to-morrow — and the Daisy — How do you all get 
on ? Have you broken down yet, Ethel ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! we do go on,’ said Ethel, smiling; ‘ the worst thing I have 
done was expecting James to dress the salads with lamp-oil.’ 

1 A Greenland salad ! But don’t talk of oil — I have the taste 
still in my mouth after the Pyrennean cookery ! Oh ! Ethel, you 
would have been wild with delight in those places 1 ’ 

1 Snowy mountains ! Are they not like a fairy-dream to you 
now ? You must have felt at home, as a Scotchwoman’s daughter.’ 

1 Think of the peaks in the sun-rise ! Oh ! I wanted you in 
the pass of Boncevalles, to hear the echo of Boland’s horn. And 
we saw the cleft made by Boland’s sword in the rocks.’ 

‘ Oh ! how delightful — and Spain too ! ’ 

1 Aye, the Isle of Pheasants, where all the conferences took 
place.’ 

‘ Where Louis XIY. met his bride, and Francois I. sealed his 
treason with his empty flourish — ’ 

‘ Well, don’t let us fight about Francois I. now; I want to 
know how Tom likes Eton.’ 

1 He gets on famously. I am so glad he is in the same house 
with Hector.’ 

1 Mr. Bamsden — how is he ? ’ 

£ No better — he has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and 
his set want to sell the next presentation, but papa hopes to stave 
that off, for there is a better set than usual in the Town Council 
this year.’ 

‘ Cocksmoor ? And how are our friends the Muses ? I found 
a note from the secretary, telling me that I am elected again. How 
have they behaved ? ’ 

‘ Pretty well,’ said Ethel. 1 Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we 
have had few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an 
uproar about the mistress beating that Franklin’s girl — and what 
do you think I did, Flora ? I made bold to say the woman should 
show her to papa, to see if she had done her any harm, and he found 
that it was all a fabrication from one end to the other. So it ended 
in the poor girl being expelled, and Mary and I have her twice a 
week, to see if there is any grace in her.’ 

‘ To reward her !-’ said Flora. 1 That is always your way- — ’ 

1 Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,’ said Ethel. 

‘ You will manage the ladies at last ! ’ cried Flora. 


76 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there ! ’ 

‘ I’ll cope with her ! But come, I want you in my room — ’ 

‘ May not I come ? ’ said Meta. ‘ I must see when — ’ 

Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an 
arch look to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of 
inquiring after Mr. Bivers, and then for George. 

Mr. Bivers was pretty, well — George, quite well, and somewhere 
in the garden ; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they 
would hardly know him ; while, Flora added, that he was delighted 
with the Oxford scheme. 

Flora’s rooms had been, already, often shewn to her sisters, 
when Mr. Bivers had been newly furnishing them with every luxury 
and ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing-room, with the 
large bay window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, 
and filled, but not crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a 
perfect exhibition to eyes unaccustomed to such varieties. 

Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the 
devices and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres ; and Blanche 
had romanced about it, to the little ones, till they were erecting it 
into a mythical palace. 

And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, 
as if she had been born and bred in the like. 

There were signs of unpacking about the room — Flora’s dress- 
ing-case on the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and 
ottoman. 

Mary ran up to them eagerly, and exclaimed at the beautiful 
shot-blue and white silk. 

‘ Paris fashions ? ’ said Ethel, carelessly. 

‘Yes; but I don’t parade my own dresses here,’ said Flora. 

‘ Whose are they then ? Your commissions, Meta ? ’ 

‘ No ! ’ and Meta laughed heartily. 

‘ Your French maid’s then ? ’ said Ethel. ‘ I dare say she dresses 
quite as well ; and the things are too really pretty and simple for 
an English maid’s taste.’ 

‘ I am glad you like them,’ said Flora, maliciously. ‘ Now, 
please to be good.’ 

• ‘ Who are they for then ? ’ said Ethel, beginning to be fright- 
ened. 

‘ For a young lady, whose brother lias got the Newdigate prize, 
and who is going to Oxford.’ 

‘ Me ! Those 1 But I have not got four backs,’ as Ethel saw 
Meta in fits of laughing, and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary 
gave a ponderous' spring of ecstasy. 

‘ Come ! ’ said Flora, ‘ you may as well be quiet. Whatever you 
may like, I am not going to have the Newdigate prizeman shewn as 
brother to a scarecrow. I knew what you would come to, without 
me to take care of you. Look at yourself in the glass.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


77 


‘ I’m sure I see no harm in myself,’ said Ethel, turning towards 
the pier-glass and surveying herself — in a white muslin, made high, 
a black silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable 
when she set out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, 
beside Flora and Meta, it had a scanty school-girl effect. { And,’ 
she continued, quaintly, 1 besides, I have really got a new gown on 
purpose — a good useful silk, that papa chose at Whitford — just the 
colour of a copper tea-kettle, where it turns purple.’ 

1 Ethel, you will kill me ! ’ said Meta, sinking back on the sofa. 

1 And I suppose,’ continued Flora, 1 that you have sent it to Miss 
Broad’s, without any directions, and she will trim it with flame- 
coloured gimp and brass buttons ; and unless Margaret catches you, 
you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my 
dear tea-kettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you had 
better submit, without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George 
wanted me to buy you a white brocade, with a perfect flower-garden 
on it, that you could have examined with a microscope. I was 
obliged to let him buy that lace mantle, to make up to him. Now 
then, Meta, the scene opens, and discovers — ’ 

Meta opened the folding-doors into Flora’s bed-room, and thence 
came forward Bellairs and a little brisk Frenchwoman, whom Flora 
had acquired at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorn- 
ing Miss Ethel against her will, looked as amused as her mistresses ; 
and, before Ethel knew what was going on, her muslin was stripped 
off her back, and that instrument of torture, a half-made body, was 
being tried upon her. She made one of her most wonderful grimaces 
of despair, and stood still ! The dresses were not so bad after all ; 
they were more tasteful than costly, and neither in material nor orna- 
ment were otherwise than suitable to the occasion and the wearer. 
It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora — that she could not but feel 
— nothing had been forgotten, but when Ethel saw the mantles, the 
ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with the French air of 
freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and hesitations, whether 
she ought to let her sister go to such an expense on her account, and 
privately resolved that the accepting thanks should not be spoken 
till she should have consulted her father. 

In the meantime, she could only endure, be laughed at by her 
elders, and entertained by Mary’s extreme pleasure in her array. 
Good Mary — it was more than any comedy to her ; she had not one 
moment’s thought of herself, till, when Flora dived into her box, 
produced a pair of bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable 
plump arms, her eyes grew wide with wonder, and she felt, at least, 
two stages nearer womanhood. 

Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every 
servant at home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Elwood, for 
which Ethel thanked her with a fervency wanting in her own case. 

She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he 


78 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Bet her mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to 
the Riverses, and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection 
that Flora shewed ; so he only smiled at Ethel’s doubts, and dwelt 
with heartfelt delight on the beautiful print, that she had brought 
him from Ary Scheffer’s picture of the Great Consoler. 

Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those 
whom she loved, had been always a favourite vision, and she had 
the full pleasure of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. 
They had a very pleasant evening ; she gave interesting accounts 
of their tour, and by her appeals to her husband, made him talk 
also. He was much more animated and agreeable than Ethel had 
ever seen him, and was actually laughing, and making Mary laugh 
heartily with his histories of the inns in the Pyrennees. Old Mi- 
Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and was quite young 
and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies, in paying 
elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law. 

Ethel told Margaret, that night, that she was quite satisfied 
about Flora — she was glad to own that she had done her injustice, 
and that Norman was right in saying there was more in George 
Rivers than met the eye. 

The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came 
back, with love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Mar- 
garet — caressing to all ; she sat in her old places ; she fulfilled her 
former offices; she gratified Miss Bracy, by visiting her in the 
school-room, and talking of French books ; and won golden opinions 
by taking Gertrude in her hand, and walking to Minster-street, to 
call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times, and take her the newest 
foreign device of working to kill time. 

So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey com- 
menced. Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with 
a parting injunction to her father, that he was to give all his pa- 
tients a sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was car 
ried away from Stoneborough. 

Meta was in her gayest mood ; Ethel full of glee and wonder, 
for once beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her ; Flora 
more quiet, but greatly enjoying their delight, and George not say- 
ing much, but smiling under his beard, as if well pleased to be so 
well amused with so little trouble. 

He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with every thing 
he could make them eat at the Swindon station, asking for impos- 
sible things, and wishing them so often to change for something bet- 
ter, that, if they had been submissive, they would have had no 
luncheon at all ; and, as it was, Flora was obliged to whisk into the 
carriage with her last sandwich in her hand. 

‘ I am the more sorry,’ said he, after grumbling at the allotted 
ten minutes, ‘as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to 
bring any friend he liked, did you not, Flora ! ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. . 79 

1 Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, 
and Mr. Ogilvie,’ said Flora. 

‘ Mr. Ogilvie ! ’ said Ethel, ‘ the Master of Glenbracken ! Oh ! 
I am so glad ! I have wanted so much to see him.’ 

‘ Ah ! he is a groat hero of yours,’ said Flora. 

‘ Do you know him ? ’ said Meta. 

‘No; but he is a great friend of Norman’s, and a Scottish 
cousin — Norman Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.* 

‘ Our grandmother, Mrs. Mackenzie, was a daughter of Lord 
G lenbracken,’ said Flora. 

‘ This man might be called the Master of Glenbracken at home,’ 
said Ethel. ‘ It is such a pretty title, and thc^e is a beautiful his- 
tory belonging to them. There was a Master of Glenbracken who 
carried James IV.’s standard at Flodden, and would not yield, 
and was killed with it wrapped round his body, and the Lion was 
dyed with his blood. Mamma knew some scraps of a ballad about 
him. Then they were out with Montrose, and had their castle burnt 
by the Covenanters, and since that they have been Jacobites, and 
one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle ! I want to hear the 
rights of it ! Norman is to go, some time or other, to stay at 
Glenbracken ! ’ . 

‘ Yes,’ said Flora, ‘ coming down to times present, this young 
heir seems worthy of his race. They are pattern people — have 
built a Church, and have all their tenantry in excellent order. 
This is the only son, and very good and clever — he preferred going 
to Balliol, that he might work ; but he is a great sportsman, George,’ 
added she ; ‘ you will get on with him very well, about fishing, and 
grouse shooting, I dare say.’ 

Norman met them at the station, and there was great excite- 
ment at seeing his long nose under his College cap. He looked 
rather thin and worn, but brightened at the sight of the party. 
After the question — whether there had been any letters from Harry ? 
he asked whether his father were coming ? — and Ethel thought he 
seemed nervous at the idea of this addition to his audience. He 
saw them to their hotel, and, promising them his two guests, de- 
parted. 

Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and re- 
collected the grey buildings, just glimpsed at in her drive — it was 
dreamy and confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that 
it was time to dress, till Flora, and her Frenchwoman, came in, and 
laid violent hands on her. 

The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel 
was made to look well-dressed, and, still more, distinguished. Her 
height told well, when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair 
was disposed so as to set off her features to advantage. The glow 
-of amusement and pleasure did still more for her; and Norman, 


80 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


who was in the parlour when the sisters appeared, quite started 
with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect. 

‘Well done, Flora! 5 he said. ‘Why! I have been telling 
Ogilvie that one of my sisters was very plain ! 5 

‘ Then, I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for 
him, 5 said Flora. ‘ Ethel is very much obliged to you. By-the-by, 5 
she said, in her universal amity, ‘ I must ask Harvey Anderson to 
dinner one of these days ? 5 

Norman started — and his face said, ‘ Be n’t. 5 

‘ 0, very well ; it is as you please. I thought it would please 
Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protegb of yours. What has 
he been doing ? Bid we not hear he had been distinguishing him- 
self ? Br. Hoxton was boasting of his two scholars. 5 

‘ Ask him, 5 said Norman, hurriedly. ‘ At least, 5 said he, ‘ do 
not let anything from me prevent you. 5 

‘ Has he been doing anything wrong ? 5 reiterated Flora. 

‘ Not that I know of, 5 was the blunt answer; and, at the same 
instant, Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking 
gentleman, brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and 
resolute cast of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited 
the Norman of Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scot- 
land, and speaking with the very same slight degree of Scottish in- 
tonation as she remembered in her mother, making a most homelike 
sound in her ears. 

Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon 
after, Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet, and tame, as he 
used to be in the school-boy days, when Norman would bring him 
home, and he used to be too shy to speak a word. 

However, he had learnt the use of his tongue by this time, 
though it was a very soft one ; and he stood by Ethel, asking many 
questions about Stoneborough, while something, apparently very 
spirited and amusing, was going on between the others. 

The dinner went off well — there were few enough for the con- 
versation to be general. The young men began to strike out sparks 
of wit against each other — Flora put in a word or two — Ethel grew 
so much interested in the discussion, that her face lighted up, and 
she joined in it, as if it had been only between her father and 
brother — keen, clear, and droll. After that, she had her full share 
in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much that, when she left the 
dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case, to sketch the colloquy, 
for Margaret and her father. 

Flora exclaimed at her, for never allowing anyone to think of 
rest. Meta said she should like to do the same, but it was impos- 
sible now ; she did not know how she should ever settle down to 
write a letter. Ethel was soon interrupted — the gentlemen entered, 
and Mr. Ogilvie came to the window, where she was sitting, and 
began to tell her how much obliged to her he and his College were 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 81 

for having insisted on her brother’s sending in his poem. ‘ Thanks 
are due, for our being spared an infliction, next week,’ he said. 

‘ Have you seen it ? ’ she asked, and she was amused by the 
quick negative movement of his head. 

‘ I read my friend’s poems ? But our lungs are prepared ! 
Will you give me my cue — it is of no use to ask him when we are 
to deafen you. One generally knows the crack passages — something 
beginning with “ O woman ! ” but it is well to be in readiness — if 
you would only forewarn me of the telling hits ? ’ 

1 If they cannot tell themselves,’ said Ethel, smiling, ‘ I don’t 
think they deserve the name.’ 

‘ Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, col- 
lectively, is not always what ought to tell on them.’ 

‘ I don’t know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite 
with them and with me.’ 

‘ I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt 
you have a copy here — made by yourself — ’ and he looked towards 
her paper-case. 

There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether 
Norman were looking. 

1 Let me see,’ he said, as she paused to open the MS., 1 he told 
me the thoughts were more yours than his own.’ 

1 Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, 
long ago talked over between us; the rest is all his own.’ 

Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his counte- 
nance shew evident tokens of surprise and feeling. 

I Yes,’ he said, presently, * May goes deep — deeper than most 
men — though I doubt whether they will applaud this.’ 

I I should like it better if they did not,’ said Ethel. ‘ It is 
rather to be felt than shouted at.’ 

‘ And I don’t know how the world would go on if it were felt. 
Few men would do much without the hope of fame,’ said Norman 
Ogilvie. 

‘ Is it the question what they would do ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ So you call fame a low motive ? I see where your brother’s 
philosophy comes from.’ 

‘ I do not call it a low motive — ’ Her pause was expressive. 

‘ Nor allow that the Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it 
something divine ? ’ 

1 For a heathen — yes.’ 

1 And pray, what would you have the moving spring ? ’ 

1 Duty.’ 

‘ Would not that end in, “ Mine be a cot, beside the rill?”* 
aaid he, with an intonation of absurd sentiment. 

* Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the 
Hay with the yoke — or Winkelried on the spears ? ’ 

1 Nay, why not — “ It is my duty to take care of Lucy.” ’ 


82 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel.’ 

‘ Not at all ! It is Lucy’s duty to keep her Colin from running 
into danger.’ 

‘ 1 hope there are not many Lucys who would think so.’ 

‘ I agree with you. Most would rather have Colin killed than 
disgraced.’ 

‘To be sure ! ’ then, perceiving a knowing twinkle, as if ho 
thought she had made an admission, she added, ‘ but what is dis- 
grace ? ’ 

‘ Some say it is misfortune,’ said Mr. Ogilvie. 

‘ Is it not failure in duty ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘Well!’ 

‘ Colin’s first duty is to his king and country. If he fail in that, 
he is disgraced, in his own eyes, before Heaven, and men. If he 
does it, there is a reward, which seems to me a better, more power- 
ful motive for Lucy to set before him than, “ My dear, I hope you 
will distinguish yourself,” when, the fact is, 

“ England has forty thousand men, 

We trust, as good as he.” 

* “ Victory or Westminster Abbey ! ” is a tolerable war cry, 
said Mr. Ogilvie. 

‘ Not so good as “ England expects every man to do his duty.” 
That serves for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey.’ 

‘ Ah ! you are an English woman ! ’ 

‘ Only by halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glen- 
bracken at Flodden than King James, or — ’ for she grew rather 
ashamed of having been impelled to utter the personal allusion, 
‘ better to have been the Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon, than 
all the rest put together.’ 

‘ I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have 
little doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian,’ coolly answered 
the Master of Glenbracken. 

‘ Why ? ’ was all that Ethel could say in her indignation. 

‘ It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen,’ he answered. 

‘ If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not de- 
serve to be a Scot.’ 

‘ And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot ! ’ 

‘ Ogilvie ! ’ called Norman, ‘ are you fighting Scottish and Eng 
lish battles with Ethel there ? We want you to tell us which will 
be the best day for going to Blenheim.’ 

The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme 
of their lionizing, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin in- 
tended to take his full share. Ethel w T as not sorry, for he interested 
her much, while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her 
full strength in answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he 
was not making any effort in using the arguments that puzzled her 


THE DAISY CHAIN 


83 


— she was in earnest, while he was at play; and, though there was 
something teasing in this, and she knew it partook of what her 
brothers called chaffing, it gave her that sense of power on his side, 
which is always attractive to women. With the knowledge, that, 
through Norman, she Fad of his real character, she understood that 
half, at least, of what he said, was jest; and the other half was 
enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue with him. 


CHAPTER IX. 

While I, thy dearest, sat apart, 

And felt thy triumphs were as mine, 

And lov’d them more that they were thine. 

Tennyson. 

That was a week of weeks ; the most memorable week in Ethel’s 
life, spent in indefatigable sight-seeing. College Chapels, Bodleian 
Library, Taylor Gallery, the Museum, ail were thoroughly studied, 
and, if Flora had not dragged the party on, in mercy to poor 
George’s patience, Ethel would never have got through a day’s 
work. 

Indeed, Mr. Ogilvie, when annoyed at being hurried in going 
over Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted 
the part of policeman, by a perpetual “ move on ; ” and as Ethel 
recollected the portly form and wooden face of the superintendent 
at Stoneborough, she was afraid that the comparison would not soon 
be forgotten. Norman Ogilvie seemed to consider himself bound 
to their train as much as his namesake, or, as on the second 
morning, Norman reported his reasoning, it was that a man must 
walk about with somebody in Commemoration week, and that it 
was a comfort to do so with ladies who wore their bonnets upon 
their heads, instead of, like mo§t of those he met, remind him of 
what Cock Robin s*nd to Jenny Wren in that matrimonial quarrel, 
when 

Robin, he grew angry. 

Hopped upon a twig — 

Flora was extremely delighted, and, in matronly fashion, told 
her sister that people were always respected and admired who had 
the strength of mind to resist unsuitable customs. Ethel laughed 
in answer, and said, she thought it would take a great deal more 
strength of mind to go about with her whole visage exposed to the 
universal gaze ; and, woman like, they had a thorough gossip over 
the evils of the “ back-sliding head-gear. 

Norman had retreated from it into the window, when Flora 
returned to the charge about Harvey Anderson. She had been 
questioning their old friend Mr. Everard, and had learnt from him 


84 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


that the cause of the hesitation, with which his name had heec 
received, was that he had become imbued with some of the Ration- 
alistic ideas current in some quarters. ‘He seldom met Norman 
May without forcing on him debates, which were subjects of great 
interest to the hearers, as the two young men were considered as 
the most distinguished representatives of their respective causes, 
among their own immediate contemporaries. Norman’s powers of 
argument, his eloquence, readiness, and clearness, were thought to 
rank very high, and, in the opinion of Mr. Everard, had been of 
great effect in preventing other youths from being carried away by 
the specious brilliancy of his rival. 

Ethel valued this testimony far above the Newdigate prize, and 
she was extremely surprised by hearing Flora declare her intention 
of still asking Mr. Anderson to dinner, only consulting her brother 
as to the day. 

‘ Why, Flora ! ask him ! Norman — ’ 

Norman had turned away with the simple answer, ‘ any day.’ 

‘ Norman is wiser than you are, Ethel,’ said Flora. ‘ He knows 
that Stoneborough would be up in arms at any neglect from us to 
one of the Andersons, and, considering the rivalship, it is the more 
graceful and becoming.’ 

‘ I do not think it right,’ said Ethel, stoutly ; ‘ I believe that a 
line ought to be drawn, and that we ought not to associate with 
people who openly tamper with their faith.’ 

‘ Never fear,’ smiled Flora ; ‘ I promise you that there shall be 
no debates at my table.’ 

Ethel felt the force of the pronoun, and, as Flora walked out of 
the room, she went up to Norman, who had been resting his brow 
against the window. 

‘ It is vain to argue with her,’ she said ; ‘ but, Norman, do not 
you think it is clearly wrong to seek after men who desert and 
deny — ’ 

She stopped short, frightened at his pale look. 

He spoke in a clear low tone, that seemed to thrill her with a 
sort of alarm. ‘ If the secrets of men’s hearts were probed, who 
could cast the first stone ? ’ 

‘ I don’t want to cast stones,’ she began ; but he made a gesture 
as if he would not hear, and, at the same moment, Mr. Ogilvie 
entered the room. 

Had Ethel been at home, she would have pondered much over 
her brother’s meaning — here she had no leisure. Not only was she 
fully occupied with the new scenes around, but her Scottish cousin 
took up every moment open to conversation. He was older than 
Norman, and had just taken his degree, and he talked with that 
superior aplomb , which a few years bestow at their time of life, 
without conceit, but more hopeful and ambitious, and with higher 
spirits than his cousin 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


85 


Though industrious and distinguished, he had not avoided society 
or amusement, was a great cricketer and tennis-player, one of the 
“ eight ” whose success in the boat-races was one of Norman’s prime 
interests, and he told stories of frolics that reminded Ethel of her 
father’s old Cambridge adventures. 

He was a new variety in her eyes, and entertained her greatly. 
Where the bounds of banter ended, was not easy to define, but 
whenever he tried a little mystification, she either entered merrily 
into the humour, or threw it over with keen wit that he kept con- 
stantly on the stretch. They were always discovering odd, unex- 
pected bits of knowledge in each other, and a great deal more 
accordance in views and opinions than appeared on the surface, for 
his enthusiasm usually veiled itself in persiflage on hers, though he 
was too good and serious at heart to carry it too far. 

At Blenheim, perhaps he thought he had given an overdose of 
nonsense, and made her believe, as Meta really did, that the Duchess 
Sarah was his model woman ; for as they walked in the park in 
search of Phoebe Mayflower’s well, he gathered a fern leaf, to shew 
her the Glenbracken badge, and talked to her of his home, his 
mother, and his sister Marjorie, and the little Church in the rocky 
glen. He gave the history of the stolen meetings of the little knot 
of Churchmen during the days of persecution, and shewed a heart 
descended straight from the Ogilvie who was “ out with Montrose,” 
now that the upper structure of young England was for a little 
while put aside. 

After this, she took his jokes much more coolly, and made 
thrusts beneath them, which he seemed to enjoy, and caused him 
to unfold himself the more. She liked him all the better for 
finding that he thought Norman had been a very good friend to 
him, and that he admired her brother heartily, watching tenderly 
over his tendencies to make himself unhappy. He confided to her 
that, much as he rejoiced in the defeats of Anderson, he feared that 
the reading and thought consequent on the discussions, had helped 
to overstrain Norman’s mind, and he was very anxious to carry 
him away from all study, and toil, and make his brains rest, and his 
eyes delight themselves upon Scottish mountains. 

Thereupon came vivid descriptions of the scenery, especially 
his own glen with the ruined tower, and ardent wishes that his 
cousin Ethel could see them also, and know Marjorie. She could 
quite echo the wish, Edinburgh and Loch Katrine had been the 
visions of her life, and now that she had once taken the leap and 
left home, absence did not seem impossible, and, with a start of 
delight, she hailed her own conviction that he intended his mother 
to invite the party to Glenbracken. 

After Norman’s visit, Mr. Ogilvie declared that he must come 
home with him and pay his long-promised visit to Stoneborough. 
lie should have come long ago. lie had been coming last winter, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


8t> 

but the wedding had prevented him ; he had always wished tG know 
Dr. May, whom his father well remembered, and now nothing should 
keep him away ! 

Flora looked on amused and pleased at Ethel’s development — her 
abruptness softened into piquancy, and her countenance so embel- 
lished, that the irregularity only added to the expressiveness. There 
was no saying what Ethel would come to ! She had not said that 
she would not go to the intended ball, and her grimaces at the 
mention of it were growing fainter every day. 

The discussion about Harvey Anderson was never revived ; Flora 
sent the invitation without another word — he came with half-a- 
dozen other gentlemen — Ethel made him a civil greeting, but her 
head was full of boats and the procession day, about which Mr. 
Ogilvie was telling her, and she thought of him no more. 

‘A lucky step ! ’ thought Flora. ‘A grand thing for Ethel — a 
capital connection for us all. Lady Glenbracken will not come too 
much into my sphere either. Yes, I am doing well by my sisters.’ 

It would make stay-at-home people giddy to record how much 
pleasure, how much conversation and laughter were crowded into 
those ten days, and with much thought and feeling beside them, for 
these were not girls on whom grave Oxford could leave no impres- 
sion but one of gaiety. 

The whole party was very full of merriment. Norman May, 
especially, on whom Flora contrived to devolve that real leadership 
of conversation that should rightly have belonged to George Rivers 
kept up the ball with wit and drollery far beyond what he usually 
put forth ; enlivened George into being almost an agreeable man, 
and drew out little Meta’s vivacity into sunny sparkles. 

Meta generally had Norman for her share, and seemed highly 
contented with his lionizings, which were given much more quietly 
and copiously than those which his cousin bestowed upon his sister. 
Or if there were anything enterprising to be done, any tower to be 
mounted, or anything with the smallest spice of danger in it, 
Meta was charmed, and with her lightness and airiness of foot 
and figure, and perfectly feminine ways showed a spirit of adven- 
ture that added to the general diversion. But if she were to be 
helped up or down anywhere, she certainly seemed to find greater 
security in Norman May’s assistance, though it was but a feather- 
like touch that she ever used to aid her bounding step. 

Both as being diffident, and, in a manner, at home, Norman was 
not as constantly her cavalier as was Mr. Ogilvie to his sister ; 
and, when supplanted, his wont was either to pioneer for Flora, or, 
if she did not need him, to walk alone, grave and abstracted. There 
was a weight on his brow, when nothing was going on to drive it 
away and whether it were nervousness as to* the performance in 
store for him, anxiety about Harry, or, as Mr. Ogilvie said, 
too severe application ; some burthen hung upon him, that was 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 87 

only lightened for the time by his participation in the enjoyment of 
the party. 

On Sunday evening, when they had been entering into the almost 
vision-like delight of the choicest of music, and other accompani- 
ments of Church service, they went to walk in Christ Church meadows. 
They had begun altogether by comparing feelings — Ethel wonder- 
ing whether Stoneborough Minster would ever be used as it might 
be, and whether, if so, they should be practically the better for it ; 
and proceeding with metaphysics on her side, and satire on Nor- 
man Ogilvie’s, to speculate whether that which is, is best, and the 
rights and wrongs of striving for change and improvements, what 
should begin from above, and what from beneath — with illustrations 
often laughter-moving, though they were much in earnest, as the 
young heir of G-lenbracken looked inic his future life. 

Flora had diverged into wondering who would have the living 
after poor old Mr. Kamsden, and walked, keeping her husband 
amused with instances of his blunders. 

Meta, as with Norman she parted from .the rest, thought her own 
^ear Abbotstoke Church, and Mr. Charles Wilmot, great subjects 
for content and thanksgiving, though it was a wonderful treat to 
see and hear such as she had enjoyed to-day; and she thought it was 
a joy, to carry away abidingly, to know that praise and worship, as 
near perfection as this earth could render them, were being offered up. 

Norman understood her thought, but responded by more of a 
sigh than was quite comfortable. 

Meta went on with her own thoughts, on the connection between 
worship and good works, how the one leads to the other, and how 
praise, with pure lips is, after all, the great purpose of existence. — 
Her last thought she spoke aloud. 

1 I suppose everything, our own happiness and all, are given to 
us to turn into praise,’ she said. 

‘ Yes — ’ echoed Norman ; but as if his thoughts were not quite 
with hers, or rather in another part of the same subject ; then re- 
calling himself, 1 Happy such as can do so.’ 

‘ If one only could — ’ said Meta. 

‘ You can — don’t say otherwise,’ exclaimed Norman ; ‘ I know, 
at least, that you and my father can.’ 

‘ Dr. May does so, more than anyone I know,’ said Meta. 

‘ Yes,’ said Norman again ; ‘ it is his secret of joy. To him it 
is never, “ I am half sick of shadows.” ’ 

1 To him they are not shadows, but foretastes,’ said Meta. 

Silence again ; and when she spoke, she said, ‘ I have always 
thought it must be such a happiness to have power of any kind that 
can be used in direct service, or actual doing good.’ 

1 No,’ said Norman. ‘ Whatever becomes a profession, becomes 
an unreality.’ 

1 Surely net, in becoming a duty,’ said Meta. 


88 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ Not for all,’ lie answered ; 4 but where the fabric erected bj 
ourselves, in the sight of the world, is but an outer case, a shell of 
mere words, blown up for the occasion, strung together as mere 
language ; then, self-convicted, we shrink within the husk, and feel 
our own worthlessness and hypocrisy. 5 

4 As one feels in reproving the school children for behaving ill 
at Church ? 5 said Meta. 

4 You never felt anything approaching to it ! 5 said Norman. 
4 To know oneself to be such a deception, that everything else seems 
a delusion too ! 5 

4 1 don’t know whether that is metaphysical, 5 said Meta, 4 but I 
am sure I don’t understand it. One must know oneself to be worse 
than one knows any one else to be. 5 

4 1 could not wish you to understand, 5 said Norman; and yet he 
seemed impelled to go on ; for, after a hesitating silence, he added, 
‘ When the wanderer in the desert fears that the spring is but a 
mirage ; or when all that is held dear is made hazy or distorted by 
some enchanter, what do you think are the feelings, Meta ? 5 

4 It must be dreadful, 5 she said, rather bewildered ; 4 but he 
may know it is a delusion, if he can but wake. Has he not always 
a spell, a charm ? — 5 

4 What is the spell ? 5 eagerly said Norman, standing still. 

4 Believe — ’ said Meta, hardly knowing how she came to choose 
the words. 

4 1 believe ! 5 he repeated. 4 What — when we go beyond the 
province of reason — human, a thing of sense after all ! How often 
have I so answered. But Meta, when a man has been drawn, in 
self-sufficient security, to look into a magic mirror, and cannot de- 
tach his eyes from the confused, misty scene — where all that had 
his allegiance appears shattered, overthrown, like a broken image, 
or at least unable to endure examination, then — 5 

4 0, Norman, is that the trial to anyone here ? I thought old 
Oxford was the great guardian nurse of truth ! I am sure she 
cannot deal in magic mirrors or such frightful things. Do you 
know you are talking like a very horrible dream ? 5 

4 1 believe I am in one, 5 said Norman. 

4 To be sure you are. Wake! 5 said Meta, looking up, smiling 
in his face. 4 You have read yourself into a maze, that’s all — what 
Mary calls, muzzling your head ; you don’t really think all this, and 
when you get into the country, away from books, you will forget it. 
One look at our dear old purple Welsh hills will blow away all the 
mists ! 5 

4 1 ought not to have spoken in this manner,’ said Norman, sadly 
4 Forget it, Meta. 5 

4 Forget it ! Of course I will. It is all nonsense, and meani 
to be forgotten, 5 said Meta, laughing. 4 You will own that it is by- 
und-by.’ 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN, 


89 


Ho gave a deep sigh. 

* Don’t think I am unfeeling,’ she said ; ‘ but I know it is all a 
fog up from books, books, books — I should like to drive it off with a 
good fresh gust of wind ! Oh ! I wish those yellow lilies would 
grow in our river ! ’ 

Meta talked away gaily for the rest of the walk. She was any- 
thing but unfeeling, but she had a confidence in Norman that for- 
bade her to see anything here but one of his variations of spirits, 
which always sank in the hour of triumph. She put forth her 
brightness to enliven him, and, in their subsequent tete a teles , she 
avoided all that could lead to a renewal of this conversation. Ethel 
would not have rested till it had been fought out. Meta thought it 
so imaginary, that it had better die for want of the aliment of 
words ; certainly hers could not reach an intellect like his, and she 
would only soothe and amuse him. Dr. May, mind-curer, as well 
as body-curer, would soon be here, to put the climax to the general 
joy, and watch his own son. 

He did arrive ; quite prepared to enjoy, giving an excellent 
account of both homes ; Mr. Rivers very well, and the Wilmots 
taking care of him, and Margaret as comfortable as usual, Mary 
making a most important and capable little housekeeper, Miss Eracy 
as good as possible. He talked as if they had all flourished the 
better for Ethel’s absence, but he had evidently missed her greatly, 
as he shewed, without knowing it, by his instant eagerness to have 
her to himself. E ven Norman, prizeman as he was, was less wanted. 
There was proud affection, eager congratulation, for him, but it 
was Ethel to whom he wanted to tell everything that had passed 
during her absence — whom he treated as if they were meeting after 
a tedious separation. 

They dined rather early, and went out afterwards, to walk down 
the High Street to Christ Church Meadow. Norman and Ethel 
had been anxious for this ; they thought it would give their father 
the best idea of the tout ensemble of Oxford, and were not without 
hopes of beating him by his own confession, in that standing fight 
between him and his sons, as to the beauties of Oxford and Cam- 
bridge — a fight in which, hitherto, they had been equally matched 
— neither partizan having seen the rival University. 

Flora staid at home; she owned herself fairly tired by her 
arduous duties of following the two young ladies about, and was 
very glad to give her father the keeping of them. Dr. May held 
out his arm to Ethel — Norman secured his peculiar property. 
Ethel could have preferred that it should be otherwise — Norman 
would have no companion but George Rivers ; how bored he would be 

All through the streets, while she was telling her father the 
names of the buildings, she was not giving her whole attention ; she 
was trying to guess from the sounds behind, whether Mr. Ogilvie 
iFcre accompanying them. They entered the meadows — Norman 


90 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


turned round, with a laugh, to defy the Doctor to talk of th« 
Cam, on the hanks of the Isis. The party stood still — the other 
two gentlemen came up. They amalgamated again — all the 
Oxonians conspiring to say spiteful things of the Cam, and Dr. 
May making a spirited defence, in which. Ethel found herself im- 
pelled to join. 

In the wide gravelled path, they proceed in threes ; George 
attached himself to his sister and Norman. Mr. Ogilvie came to 
Ethel’s other side, and began to point out all the various notabili- 
ties. Ethel was happy again ; her father was so much pleased and 
amused with him, and he with her father, that it was a treat to 
look on. 

Presently, Dr. May, as usual, always meeting with acquaintances, 
fell in with a county neighbour, and Ethel had another pleasant 
aside, until her father claimed her, and Mr. Ogilvie was absorbed 
among another party, and lost to her sight. 

He came to tea, but, by that time, Dr. May had established 
himself in the chair, which had, hitherto, been appropriated to her 
cousin, a chair that cut her nook off from the rest of the world, and 
made her the exclusive possession of the occupant. There was a 
most interesting history for her to hear, of a meeting with the Town 
Council, which she had left pending, when Dr. May had been bat- 
tling to save the next presentation of the living from being sold. 

Few subjects could affect Ethel more nearly, yet she caught 
herself missing the thread of his discourse, in trying to hear what 
Mr. Ogilvie was saying to Flora about a visit to Glenbracken. 

The time came for the two Balliol men to take their leave. 
Norman May had been sitting very silent all the evening, and 
Meta, who was near him, respected his mood. When he said 
good-night, he drew Ethel outside the door. 1 Ethel,’ he said, 
‘ only one thing : do ask my father not to put on his spectacles to- 
morrow.’ 

‘ Very well,’ said Ethel, half smiling; 1 Richard did not mind 
them.’ 

‘ Richard has more humility — I shall break down if lie looks at 
me ! I wish you were all at home. 

‘ Thank you.’ 

The other Norman came out of the sitting-room at the moment 
and heard the last words. 

1 Never mind,’ said he to Ethel, 1 I’ll take care of him. Ho 
shall comport himself as if you were all at Nova Zembla. A 
pretty fellow to talk of despising fame, and then get a fit of stage- 
fright ! ’ S 

‘ Well, good-night,’ said Norman, sighing. ‘ It will be over to 
morrow; only remember the spectacles.’ 

Dr. May laughed a good deal at the request, and asked if 
the rest of the party were to be blindfolded Meta wondered 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


91 


that Ethel should have mentioned the request so publicly ; she 
was a good deal touched by it, and she thought Dr. May ought 
to be so. 

Good-night was said, and Dr. May put his arm round Ethel, and 
gave her the kiss that she had missed for seven nights. It was very 
homelike, and it brought a sudden flash of thought across Ethel ! 
What had she been doing ? She had been impatient of her father’s 
monopoly of her ! 

She parted with Flora, and entered the room she shared with 
Meta, where Bellairs waited to attend her little mistress. Few 
words passed between the two girls, and those chiefly on the mor- 
row’s dress. Meta had some fixed ideas — she should wear pink. 
Norman had said he liked her pink bonnet, and then she could 
put down her white veil, so that he could be certain that she was 
not looking; Ethel vaguely believed Flora meant her to wear — 
something — 

Bellairs went away, and Meta gave expression to her eager hope 
that Norman would go through it well. If he would only read it, 
as he did last Easter to her and Ethel. 

1 He will,’ said Ethel. 1 This nervousness always wears off 
when it comes to the point, and he warms with his subject.’ 

‘ Oh I but think of all the eyes looking at him ! ’ 

‘ Ours are all that he really cares for, and he will think of none 
of them, when he begins. No, Meta, you must not encourage him 
in it. Papa says, if he did not think it half morbid — the result of 
the shock to his nerves — he should be angry with it as a sort of 
conceit ! ’ 

‘.I should have thought that the last thing to be said of Nor- 
man ! ’ said Meta, with a little suppressed indignation. 

1 It was once in his nature,’ said Ethel ; ‘ and I think it is the 
fault he most beats down. There was a time, before you knew him, 
when he would have been vain and ambitious.’ 

* Then it is as they say, conquered faults grow to be the opposite 
virtues!’ said ’Meta. ‘How very good he is, Ethel; one sees it 
more when he is with other people; and one hears all these young 
men’s stories ! ’ 

‘ Everything Norman does not do, is not therefore wrong,’ said 
Ethel, with her usual lucidity of expression. 

* Don’t you like him the better for keeping out of all these 
follies ? ’ 

‘ Norman does not call them so, I am sure.’ 

* No, he is too good to condemn — ’ 

1 It is not only that,’ said Ethel. 1 1 know' papa thinks that 
the first grief, coming at his age, and in the manner it did, checked 
and subdued his spirits, so that he has little pleasure in those 
things. And he always meant to be a Clergyman, which acted 
as a sort of Consecration on him ; but many things are innocent 


92 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


and I do believe papa would like it better, if Norman were less 
grave.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Meta, remembering the Sunday talk, 1 but still, be 
would not be all he is — so different from others — ’ 

‘ Of course, I don’t mean less good, only, less grave,’ said Ethel, 
‘ and certainly less nervous. But, perhaps, it is a good thing ; dear 
mamma thought his talents would have been a greater temptation 
than they seem to be, subdued as he has been. I only meant that 
you must not condemn all. that Norman does not do. Now, good- 
night.’ 

Very different were the feelings with which those two young 
girls stretched themselves in their beds that night. Margaret Ri- 
vers’s innocent, happy little heart was taken up in one contemplation. 
Admiration, sympathy, and the exultation for him, which he would 
not feel for himself, drew little Meta entirely out of herself — a self 
that never held her much. She was proud of the slender thread of 
connexion between them ; she was confident that his vague fancies 
were but the scruples of a sensitive mind, and, as she fell sound 
asleep, she murmured broken lines of Decius, mixed with promises 
not to look. 

Etheldred heard them, for there was no sleep for her. She had 
a parley to hold with herself, and to accuse her own feelings of 
having been unkind, ungrateful, undutiful towards her father. 
What had a fit of vanity brought her to ? that she should have 
been teazed by what would naturally have been her greatest de- 
light ! her father’s pleasure in being with her. Was this the girl 
who had lately vowed within herself that her father should be hei 
first earthly object ? 

At first, Ethel blamed herself for her secret impatience, but 
another conviction crossed her, and not an unpleasing one, though 
it made her cheeks tingle with maidenly shame, at having called it 
up. Throughout this week, Norman Ogilvie had certainly sought 
her out. He had looked disappointed this evening — there was no 
doubt that he was attracted by her — by her, plain, awkward Ethel ! 
Such a perception assuredly never gave so much pleasure to a 
beauty as it did to Ethel, who had always believed herself far less 
good-looking than she really was. It was a gleam of delight, and, 
though she set herself to scold it down, the conviction was elastic, 
and always leapt up again. 

That resolution came before her, but it had been unspoken ; it 
could not be binding, and, if her notion were really right, the misty 
brilliant future of mutual joy dazzled her ! But there was another 
side : her father oppressed and lonely, Margaret ill and pining, 
Mary, neither companion nor authority, the children running wild ; 
and she, who had mentally vowed never to forsake her father, far 
away, enjoying her own happiness. ‘ Ah ! that resolve had seemed 
vasy enough when it was made, when,’ thought Ethel, ‘ I fancied nc 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 93 

one could care for me ! Shame on me ! Now is the time to test it ! 
I must go home with papa.’ 

It was a great struggle — -on one side there was the deceitful 
guise of modesty, telling her it was absurd to give so much impor- 
tance to the kindness of the first cousin, with whom she had ever 
been thrown ; there was the dislike to vex Flora to make a discus- 
sion, and break up the party. There was the desire to hear the 

concert, to go to the breakfast at College, to return round by 

Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth, as designed. Should she lose 
all this for a mere flattering fancy. She, who had laughed at 
Miss Boulder, for imagining every one whe spoke to her was 
smitten. What reason could she assign ? It would be simply 
ridiculous, and unkind— and it was so very pleasant. Mr. Ogilvie 
would be too wise to think of so incongruous a connexion, which 
would be so sure to displease his parents. It was more absurd 
than ever to think of it. The heir of Glenbracken, and a country 
physician’s daughter ! 

That was a candid heart which owned that its own repugnance 
to accept this disparity as an objection, was an additional evidence 
that she ought to flee from further intercourse. She believed that 
no harm was done yet ; she was sure that she loved her father better 
than anything else in the world, and whilst she did so, it was best 
to preserve her heart for him. Widowed as he was, she knew that 
he would sorely miss her, and that for years to come, she should be 
necessary at home. She had better come away while it would cost 
only a slight pang, for that it was pain to leave Norman Ogilvie, 
was symptom enough of the need of not letting her own silly heart 
go further. However it might be with him, another week would 
only make it worse with her. 

* I will go home with papa ! ’ was the ultimatum reached by each 
chain of mental reasonings, and borne in after each short prayer for 
guidance, as Ethel tossed about listening to the perpetual striking 
of all the Oxford clocks, until daylight had begun to shine in ; when 
she fell asleep, and was only waked by Meta, standing over her with 
a sponge, looking very mischievous, as she reminded her of their 
appointment with Dr. May, to go to the early service in New Col- 
lege Chapel. 

The world looked different that morning with Ethel, but the de- 
termination was fixed, and the service strengthened it. She was 
so silent during the walk, that her companions rallied her, and they 
both supposed she was anxious about Norman; but taking her op- 
portunity, when Meta was gone to prepare for breakfast, she rushed, 
in her usual way, into the subject. ‘ Papa ! if you please, I should 
like to go home to-morrow with you.’ 

1 Eh ? ’ said the Doctor, amazed. ‘ How is this ? I told you 
that Miss Bracy and Mary are doing famously.’ 

1 Yes, but I had rather go back.’ 


94 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ Indeed ! ’ and Dr. May looked at the door, and spoke low 
* They make you welcome, I hope — ’ 

1 Oh ! yes, nothing can be kinder.’ 

‘ I am glad to hear it. This Rivers is such a lout, that I could 
not tell how it might be. I did not look to see you turn homesick 
all at once.’ 

Ethel smiled. ‘ Yes, I have been very happy ; but please, papa, 
ask no questions — only take me home.’ 

1 Come ! it is all a homesick fit, Ethel — never fear the ball. 
Think of the concert. If it were not for that poor baby of Mrs. 
Larkins, I should stay myself to hear Sonntag again. You won’t 
have such another chance.’ 

‘ I know, but I think I ought to go — ’ 

George came in, and they could say no more. Roth were silent 
on the subject at breakfast, but when afterwards Flora seized on 
Ethel, to array her for the theatre, she was able to say, ‘ Flora, 
please don’t be angry with me — you have been very kind to me, but 
I mean to go home with papa to-morrow.’ 

‘ I declare ! ’ said Flora, composedly, ‘ you are as bad as the 
children at the Infant School, crying to go home the instant they 
see their mothers ! ’ 

‘ No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, 
but I shall have heard Norman’s poem, and then I must go.’ 

Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, 
and said, 1 My dear, never mind, it will all come right again — only, 
don’t run away.’ 

. ‘ What will come right ? ’ 

1 Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie.’ 

‘ I don’t know what you mean,’ said Ethel, becoming scarlet. 

1 My dear, you need not try to hide it. I see that you have got 
into a fright. You have made a discovery, but that is no reason 
for running away.’ 

1 Yes it is ! ’ said Ethel, firmly, not denying the charge, though 
reddening more than ever at finding her impression confirmed. 

. ‘ Poor child ! she is afraid ! ’ said Flora, tenderly ; 1 but I will 
take care of you, Ethel. It is everything delightful. You are the 
very girl for such a her os de Roman , and it has embellished you 
more than all my Paris fineries.’ 

‘ Hush, Flora ! We ought not to talk in this way, as if — ’ 

1 As if he had done more than walk with, and talk with, nobody 
else ! How he did hate papa, last night. I had a great mind tc 
call papa oif, in pity to him.’ 

1 Don’t, Flora. If there were anything in it, it would not be 
proper to think of it, so I am going home to prevent it.’ The words 
were spoken with averted face, and heaving breath. 

‘ Proper ?’ said Flora. 1 The Mays arc a good old family and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 95 

our own grandmother was an honourable Ogilvie hei pelf. A Scob 
tish Baron, very poor too, has no right to look down — ’ 

1 They shall not look down. Flora, it is of no use to talk. I 
cannot he spared from home, and I will not put myself in the way 
of being tempted to forsake them all.’ 

‘ Tempted ! ’ said Flora, laughing. ‘ Is it such a wicked 
thing ? ’ 

‘ Not in others, but it would be wrong in me, with such a state 
of things as there is at home.’ 

‘ I do not suppose he would want you for some years to come. 
He is only two-and- twenty. Mary will grow older.’ 

1 Margaret will either be married, or want constant care. Flora, 
I will not let myself be drawn from them.’ 

I You may think so now ; but it would be for their real good to 
relieve papa of any of us. If we were all to think as you do, how 
should we live ? I don’t know — for papa told me there will be 
barely ten thousand pounds, besides the houses, and what will that 
be among ten ? I am not talking of yourself, but, think of the 
others ! ’ 

I I know papa will not be happy without me, and I will not leave 
him,’ repeated Ethel, not answering the argument. 

Flora changed her ground, and laughed. ‘ We are getting into 
the heroics,’ she said, 1 when it would be very foolish to break up 
our plans, only because we have found a pleasant cousin. There is 
nothing serious in it, I dare say. How silly of us to argue on such 
an idea ! ’ 

Meta came in before Flora could say more, but Ethel, with burn- 
ing cheeks, repeated, ‘ It will be safer ! ’ 

Ethel had, meantime, been dressed by her sister ; and, as Bel- 
lairs came to adorn Meta, and she could have no solitude, she went 
down stairs, thinking she heard Norman’s step, and hoping to judge 
of his mood. 

She entered the room with an exclamation — 1 0 Norman ! ’ 

1 At your service ! ’ said the wrong Norman, looking merrily up, 
from behind a newspaper. 

1 Oh, I beg your pardon ; I thought — ’ 

1 Your thoughts were quite right,’ he said, smiling. 1 Your 
brother desires me to present his respects to his honoured family, 
and to inform them that his stock of assurance is likely to be dimin- 
ished by the pleasure of their company this morning.’ 

1 How is he ? ’ asked Ethel, anxiously. 

‘ Pretty fair. He has blue saucers round his eyes, as he had 
before he went up for his little go.’ 

1 Oh, I know them,’ said Ethel. 

‘Very odd,’ continued her cousin; ‘when the end always is, 
that he says he has the luck of being set on in the very place ho 
18 


96 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


knows best. But, I think it has expended itself in a sleepless night, 
and I have no fears, when he comes to the point.’ 

‘ What is he doing ? ’ 

1 Writing to his brother Harry. He said it-was the day for 
the Pacific mail, and that Harry’s pleasure would be the best 
of it.’ 

‘ Ah 1 ’ said Ethel, glancing towards the paper, ‘ Is there any 
naval intelligence ? ’ 

He looked ; and while she was thinking whether she ought not 
to depart, he exclaimed, in a tone that startled her, ‘ Ha ! No. Is 
your brother’s ship the Alcestis ? ’ 

‘Yes! Oh, what?’ 

Nothing then, I assure you. See, it is merely this — she has 
not come into Sydney so soon as expected, which you knew before. 
This is all.’ 

‘ Let me see,’ said the trembling Ethel. 

It was no more than an echo of their unconfessed apprehensions, 
yet it seemed to give them a body; and Ethel’s thoughts flew to 
Margaret. Her going home would be absolutely necessary now. 
Mr. Ogilvie kindly began to talk away her alarm, saying that there 
was still no reason for dread, mentioning the many causes that 
might have delayed the ship, and re-assuring her greatly. 

‘ But Norman,’ she said. 

‘ Ah ! true. Poor May ! He will break down, to a certainty, 
if he hears it. I will go at once, and keep guard over him, lest he 
should meet with this paper. But, pray don’t be alarmed. I as- 
sure you there is no cause. You will have letters to-morrow.’ 

Ethel would fain have thrown off her finery and hurried home 
at once, but no one regarded the matter as she did. Dr. May 
agreed with Flora, that it was no worse than before, and though 
they now thought Ethel’s return desirable, on Margaret’s account, 
it would be better not to add to the shock by a sudden arrival, 
especially as they took in no daily paper at home. So the theatre 
was not to be given up, nor any of the subsequent plans, except so 
far as regarded Ethel; and, this agreed, they started for the scene 
of action. 

They were hardly in the street before they met the ubiquitous 
Mr. Ogilvie, saying that Cheviot, Norman’s prompter, was a*vare 
of the report, and was guarding him, while he came to escort the 
ladies, through what he expressively called “ the bear fight.” Ethel 
resolutely adhered to her father, and her cousin took care of Meta, 
who had been clinging in a tiptoe manner to the point of her 
brother’s high elbow, looking as if the crowd might easily brush 
off such a little fly without his missing her. 

Inch by inch, a step at a time, the ladies were landed in a crowd 
of their own sex, where Flora bravely pioneered — they emerged on 
their benches shook themselves out, and seated themselves. There 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


97 


was tlie swarm of gay ladies, around them, and beneath the area, 
fast being paved with heads, black, brown, grey and bald, a surging 
living sea, where Meta soon pointed out Dr. May and George ; the 
mere sight of such masses of people was curious and interesting, 
reminding Ethel of Cherry Elwood having once shocked her by 
saying the Whitmonday club was the most beautiful sight in the 
whole year. And above ! that gallery of trampling undergraduates, 
and more than trampling ! Ethel and Meta could, at first, have 
found it in their hearts to be frightened at those thundering shouts, 
but the young ladies were usually of opinions so similar, that the 
louder grew the cheers, the more they laughed and exulted, so car- 
ried along, that no cares could be remembered. 

Making a way through the thronged area, behold the procession 
of scarlet Doctors, advancing through the midst, till the red and 
black Vice-Chancellor sat enthroned in the centre, and the scarlet 
line became a semicircle, dividing the flower-garden of ladies from 
the black mass below. 

Then came the introduction of the honorary Doctors, one by one, 
with the Latin speech, which Ethel’s companions unreasonably 
required her to translate to them, while she was using all her ears 
to catch a word or two, and her eyes to glimpse at the features of 
men of note. 

By-and-by, a youth made his appearence in the rostrum,, and a 
good deal of Latin ensued, of which Flora hoped Ethel was less 
tired of than she was. In time, however, Meta saw the spectacles 
removed, and George looking straight up, and she drew down her 
veil, and took hold of Flora’s hand, and Ethel flushed like a hot 
coal. Nevertheless, all contrived to see a tall figure, with face 
much flushed, and hands moving nervously ! The world was tired, 
and people were departing, so that the first lines were lost, perhaps 
a satisfaction to Norman, but his voice soon cleared and became 
louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the “funny state” had 
come to his relief — people’s attention was arrested — there was no 
more going away — 

It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, 
for four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying 
how self-sacrifice sent forth the sailor-boy from home, to the lone 
watch, the wave and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood 
braced his form. 

Applause did not come where Ethel had expected it ; and, at 
first, there was silence at the close, but, suddenly, the acclamations 
rose with deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some 
poems with more to catch the popular ear. 

Ethel’s great excitement was over, and presently she found her- 
self outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held 
over her by Mr. Ogilvie, whc was asking her if it was not admi- 


98 


THE DAISY CHAIN'. 


rable, and declaring the poem might rank with Heber’s Palestine, or 
Milman’s Apollo. 

They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the Colleges, 
where Ethel might survey the Principal with whom Miss llieh had 
corresponded. Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, 
and quizzed the dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and 
did not wish to enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped 
his lively tone, and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling 
eagerly of her dear sailor brother, and found him so sympathizing 
and considerate, that she did not like him less ; though she felt her 
intercourse with him a sort of intoxication, that would only make 
it the worse for her by-and-by. 

During that whole luncheon, and their wa*l through the gar- 
dens, where there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was 
always prompting her to say, while in this quasi privacy, that she 
was on the eve of departure, but she kept her resolution against it 
— she thought it would have been an unwarrantable experiment. 

When they returned to their inn, they found Norman looking 
fagged, but relieved, half-asleep on the sofa, with a novel in his 
hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to avoid any com- 
pliments on his own performance, began — ‘ Well, Ethel, are you 
ready for the ball ? ’ 

‘ We shall spare her the ball,’ said Dr. May; 1 there is a report 
about the Alcestis, in the newspaper, that may make Margaret un- 
comfortable, and this good sister will not stay away from her.’ 

Norman started up crying, 1 What, papa ? ’ 

‘ It is a mere nothing in reality,’ said Dr. May, ‘ only what we 
knew before;’ and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman 
read as a death warrant — the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks 
— he trembled so, that he was obliged to sit down, and without 
speaking, he kept his eyes fixed on the words, “ serious apprehen- 
sions are entertained with regard to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain 
Gordon — ” 

‘ If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as 
I have, you would not take this so much to heart,’ said Dr. May. 
1 I expect to hear that this very mail has brought letters.’ 

And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next 
to one of the honorary doctors — a naval captain — who had been 
making discoveries in the South Sea, and that he had scouted the 
notion of harm befalling the Alcestis, and given all manner of re- 
assuring suppositions as to her detention, adding besides, that no 
one believed the Australian paper, whence the report was taken. He 
had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain Gordon, and spoke of him as 
one of the safest people in the world. Had his acquaintance ex- 
tended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have been perfect 
—as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman’s cheek, 
and the light to his eyes. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


99 


1 When do we set off? ’ was Norman’s question. 

I At five,’ said Ethel. 1 You mean it, papa ? ’ 

I I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you 
till eight ; nor you Norman, at all.’ 

Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora, would 
not hear of it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid 
of the effect of anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While 
this was going on, Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, 
and said, ‘ Are you really going home ? ’ 

1 Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears 
this.’ 

He looked down — Ethel had the resolution to walk away. 
Flora could not give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go ; 
but both the Normans spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and 
Ethel. Norman May had a bad headache, which he was allowed to 
have justly earned ; Dr. May was very happy reviving all his Scot- 
tish recollections, and talking to young Ogilvie about Edinburgh. — 
Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel was provoked and 
ashamed of the throbs that it would excite. What ! on a week’s 
acquaintance ? — 

When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for 
something heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of 
her cousin’s kind consideration for her brother, whom he wished 
to take home with him, and thence to see the Highlands, so as to 
divert his anxiety for Harry, as well as to call him off from the 
studies with which he had this term overworked himself even more 
than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful consent, and he 
spoke highly in praise of the youth ; bijt there was no more to 
come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of anti- 
cipation. 

Meta came home, apologizing for wakening Ethel — but Ethel 
had not been asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charm- 
ing to her as most events were, and Ethel heard a sigh, as the little 
lady lay down in her bed. 

Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the 
travellers off — she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished 
she might go with them. George and Flora were not visible, and 
Dr. May was leaving messages for them, and for Norman, in her 
charge, when the two Balliol men walked in. 

Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that 
the two youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was 
placed in the carriage, she believed that she heard something of 
never forgetting — happiest week — but in the civilities which the 
other occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation 
of their lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she 
heard were, “ Good-bye — I hope you will find letters at home.” 


100 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


CHAPTER X. 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and hom£. 

Wordsworth. 

jtiTHELDRED’s dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of 
a Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a 
thin, foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was 
to be devoted ! She looked at his profile, defined against the win- 
dow, and did not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for 
him, she took his hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it 
in the roof, when he turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, ( it was 
not worth while — this carriage was a very transitory resting-place.’ 

The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, 

1 Dick himself ! ’ 

‘ Spencer ! old fellow, is it you ? ’ cried Dr. May, in a voice of 
equal amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped 
and wrung with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed 
arm. 

‘ Ha ! what is amiss with your arm ? ’ was the immediate ques- 
tion. Three technical words were spoken in a matter of fact way, 
as Dr. May replaced his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager 
smile, said, 1 Ethel, here ! You have heard of him ! ’ 

Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the 
bow and air of deferential politeness with which it was received, 
like a favour, while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been 
staying in Oxford. 

‘ Aye, and what for, do you think ? ’ said Dr. May, joyously. 

‘ You don’t say that was your son who held forth yesterday ! I 
thought his voice had a trick of yours — but then I thought you 
would have held by old Cambridge.’ 

1 What could I do ? ’ said Dr. May, deprecating! y ; ‘ the boy 
would go and get a Balliol scholarship — ’ 

4 Why ! the lad is a genius ! a poet — no mistake about it ! but 
I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age.’ 

■ Of his age ! His brother is in Holy Orders — one of his sisters 
is married. There’s for you, Spencer ! ’ 

‘ Bless me, Dick ! I thought myself a young man ! ’ 

1 What ! with hair of that colour ? ’ said Dr. May, looking at 
his friend’s milk-white locks. 

4 Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, 
when I thought I was done for. But you ! you — the boy of the 
whole lot ! You think me very disrespectful to your father,’ added 
he, turning to Ethel, 4 but you see what old times are.’ 

4 I know,’ said Ethel, with a bright look. 

c So you were in the theatre, yesterday,’ continued Dr. May, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 101 

1 but there is no seeing anyone in such a throng. How long have 
you been in England ? ’ 

1 A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern ; 
there I fell in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. 
He was going up to be made an honorary Doctor, and made me 
come with him.’ 

‘ And where are you bound for ? ’ as the train shewed signs of a 
halt. 

‘ For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you 
and other old friends.’ 

‘ Does he expect you ? ’ 

1 No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond.’ 

1 Come home with us,’ said Dr. May, laying his hand on hk 
arm. ‘ I cannot part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. 
Take your ticket for Gloucester.’ 

‘ So suddenly. Will it not be inconvenient ? ’ said he, looking 
tempted but irresolute. 

‘ O no, no ; pray come ! ’ said Ethel, eagerly. ‘ We shall be so 
glad.’ 

He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en 
route for Stoneborough. 

Ethel’s thoughts were diverfed from all she had left at Oxford. 
She could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough 
of the traveller to enter into her father’s happiness, and to have no 
fears of another Sir Matthew. 

They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambiidge, at Paris, 
at Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship ; but, by Dr. 
May’s own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, 
a bright compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished 
in all his studies, and Dr. May’s model of perfection. Their paths 
had since lain far apart, and they had not seen each other, since, 
twenty-six years ago, they had parted in London — the one to settle 
at his native town, while the other accepted a situation as travelling 
physician. On his return, he had almost sacrificed his life by 
self-devoted attendance on a fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had 
afterwards received an appointment in India, and there the corres- 
pondence had died away, and Dr. May had lost traces of him, only 
knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he had again acted with the 
same carelessness of his own life, and a severe illness, which had 
broken up his health, had occasioned him to relinquish his post. 

It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever 
since. He had gone to recruit, in the Himalayas, and had become 
engrossed in scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as 
investigations in natural history. Going to Calcutta he had fallen 
in with a party about to explore the Asiatic islands, and he had ac- 
companied them, as well as going on an expedition into the interior 
of Australia. He had been employed in various sanitary arrange 


102 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


ments there, and in India, and had finally worked his way slowly 
home, overland, visiting Egypt and Palestine, and refreshing his 
memory with every Italian, German, or French Cathedral, or work 
of art, that had delighted him in early days. 

He was a slight, small man, much sun-burnt, nearly bald, and his 
hair snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling, 
and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any 
emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. 
His voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and 
polished ; indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change 
of carriage, was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect 
on a chivalrous mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious 
article. It frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of 
the journey, she had already begun to feel, towards him, like an old 
friend — one of those inheritances, who are so much valued and loved, 
like a sort of uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful 
honour for the delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his 
eye often falling anxiously on her father’s left hand, where the wed- 
ding-ring shone upon the little finger. 

There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and 
on old friends ; but, after those first few words, home had never 
been mentioned. 

•When, at five o’clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old 
familiar station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before 
Adams hastened up to him with a note. 

‘ All well at home ? ’ 

* Yes, sir. Miss Margaret sent up the gig.’ 

‘ I must go at once,’ said Dr. May, hastily — ‘ the Larkins’ child 
is worse. Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to 
Margaret. I’ll be at home before tea.’ 

He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. 
Dr. Spencer gave her his arm, and was silent; but presently said, 
in a low, anxious voice, “My dear, you must forgive me, I have 
heard nothing for many years. Your mother — ’ 

1 It was an accident,’ said Ethel, looking straight before her. 

( It was when papa’s arm was hurt. The carriage was overturned.’ 

‘ And — ’ repeated Dr. Spencer, earnestly. 

1 She was killed on the spot,’ said Ethel, speaking shortly, and 
abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise. 

He was dreadfully shocked — she knew it by the shudder of his 
arm, and a tight, suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, 
as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very 
consoling, and equally blunt, ‘ Margaret had some harm done to her 
spine — she cannot walk.’ 

He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where 
Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again. 

They had just passed Mr. Bramshaw’s office, when a voice was 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


105 


heard behind, calling, ‘ Miss Ethel ! Miss Ethel ! ’ and Edward An* 
derson, now articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and 
looking shabby and inky. 

1 Miss Ethel ! ’ he said, breathlessly, ‘ I beg your pardon, but 
have you heard from Harry ? ’ 

‘ No ! ’ said Ethel. ‘ Have they had that paper at home ? ’ 

‘Not that I know of,’ said Edward. ‘ My mother wanted to 
send it, but I would not take it — not while Hr. May was away.’ 

‘ Thank you — that was very kind of you.’ 

1 And oh ! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true ? ’ 

‘ We hope not,’ said Ethel, kindly — ‘ we saw a captain at Oxford 
who thought it not at all to be depended on.’ 

‘ I am so glad,’ said Edward ; and, shaking hands, he went back 
to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Nor- 
man had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her com- 
panion in explanation. ‘ We are very anxious for news of my next 
brother’s ship Alcestis, in the Pacific — ’ 

‘ More ! ’ exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered ; 
‘ Good heavens ! I thought May, at least, was happy ! ’ 

‘ He is not unhappy,’ said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived 
at the back entrance of the shrubbery. 

‘ How long ago was this ? ’ said he, standing still, as soon as they 
had passed into the garden. 

‘ Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost 
always good.’ 

‘ When I was at Adelaide, little thinking ! ’ he sighed, then 
recollecting himself. ‘ Forgive me, I have given you pain.’ 

‘No,’ she said, ‘ or rather, I gave you more.’ 

‘ I knew her — ’ and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then 
collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, 
and said, walking on, ‘ This garden is not much altered.’ 

At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance 
among the laurels — But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of 
the forty thieves ! ’ 

‘ A startling announcement ! ’ said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, 
and the next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in 
the laurels, where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but 
keeping a watchful eye over Blanche, who was dropping something 
into the holes of inverted flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a 
way that seemed to have called for the reproof of the more earnest 
actors. 

‘ Ethel ! Ethel ! ’ screamed the children, with one voice, and 
while the two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had 
made a dart at her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and 
all, like a wild cat. 

‘ That will do, that will do, old man — let go ! Speak to Dr 
Spencer, my dear.’ 


104 : 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Blanche did .so demurely, and ’asked where was papa ? 

‘ Coming, as soon as he has been to. Mrs. Larkins’s poor baby.’ 

‘ George Larkins has been here,’ said Aubrey. 5 And I have 
finished Vipera et lima , Ethel; but Margaret makes such false 
quantities ! ’ 

4 What is your name, youngster ? ’ said Dr. Spencer, laying his 
hand on Aubrey’s head. 

1 Aubrey Spencer May,’ was the answer. 

1 Hey day ! where did you steal my name ? ’ exclaimed Dr. Spen- 
cer, while Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation. 

4 Oh ! ’ exclaimed. Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and -whispering, 1 Is 
it really the boy that climbed the market cross ? 5 

‘You see your fame lives here?’ said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. 
Spencer evidently heard. 

‘ He was a little boy ! 5 said Aubrey, indignantly, looking at the 
grey-haired man. 

‘ There ! ’ said Ethel to Dr. Spencer. 

1 The tables turned ! ’ he said, laughing heartily. 1 But do not 
let me keep you. — You would wish to prepare your sister for a 
stranger, and I shall improve my acquaintance here. Where are 
the forty thieves ? ’ 

1 I am all of them,’ said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude ; and 
Ethel hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by 
his true good-breeding. 

There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working be- 
side Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to 
her eldest sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and re- 
buke to her home-sick Ethel. 4 Naughty girl ! running home at 
once ! I did think you would have been happy there ! ’ 

4 So I was,’ said Ethel, hastily ; 4 but who do you think I have 
brought home ? ’ . Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel 
resolved never to set her guessing again, .and hurried to explain ; 
and having heard that all was well, and taken her housekeeping 
measures, she proceeded to fetch the guest ; but Mary, who had been 
unusually silent all this time, ran after her and checked her. 

* Ethel ! have you heard ? ’ she said. 

4 Have you V said Ethel. 

4 George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would 
come home, and he told me. He said I had better not tell Marga- 
ret, for he did not believe it.’ 

4 And you have not ! That is very good of you, Mary.’ 

‘ Oh! I am glad you are come ! I could not have helped tell- 
ing, if you had been away a whole week ! But, Ethel, does papa 
believe it?’ Poor Mary’s full lip swelled, and her -eyes swam, 
ready to laugh or weep, in full faith in her sister’s answer. 

Ethel told of Meta’s captain, and the smile predominated, and 
settled down into Mary’s usual broad beamy look, like a benignant 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


105 


rising sun on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a for- 
titude and consideration of which she had not thought her capable. 

Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of 
the forty thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-cap- 
tain and the ass, and the children in perfect ecstacies with him. 

They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so 
clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He 
certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her 
disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send 
Aubrey to show him to his room, where he might have some peace. 

She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to 
reply to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her 
sudden return ; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to 
sit down to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. 
But solitary reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house 
in bed, and Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to 
everybody, under an undefined sense, that she had come home to a 
dull, anxious world of turmoil. 

Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort ; she 
evidently thought that her return was fully accounted for by the 
fascination of her papa’s presence in a strange place. She gave 
Ethel no credit for the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could 
not enjoy herself away from home. Ethel did not know whether to 
be glad or not; she was relieved, but it was flat. ■ As to Norman 
Ogilvie, one or two inquiries whether she liked him, and if Norman 
were going to Scotland with him, were all that passed, and it was* 
very provoking .to be made so hot and conscious by them. 

She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpack- 
ing, she heard her father come home, among the children’s loud 
welcomes, and go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at 
the door between their rooms. 

‘ So Margaret does not know ? ’ he said. 

‘ No, Mary has been so very good ; ’ and she told what had passed. 

‘ Well done, Mary, I must tell her so. She is a good girl on a 
pinch, you see ! ’ 

‘ And we don’t speak of it now ? Or will it hurt Margaret 
more to think we keep things from her ? ’ 

‘ That is the worst risk of the two. I have seen great harm 
done in that way. Mention it, but without seeming to make too 
much of it.’ 

‘ Won’t you, papa? ’ — 

. ‘You had better — it will seem of less, importance. I think 
nothing of it myself — ’ 

Nevertheless, Ethel saw that he could not trust himself to 
broach the subject to Margaret. 

‘ How was the Larkins’ baby ? ’ 

< Doing better. What have you done with Spencer ? ’ 


106 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


4 1 put liim into Richard’s room. The children were eating him 
up ! He is so kind to them.’ 

4 Aye ! I say, Ethel, that was a happy consequence of your 
coming home with me.’ 

4 What a delightful person he is ! ’ 

4 Is- he not ? A true knight-errant, as he always was ! I could 
not tell you what I owed to him as a boy — all my life, I may say — 
Ethel,’ he added, suddenly ; ‘we must do our best to make him 
happy here. I know it now — I never guessed it then , but one is 
very hard and selfish when one is happy — ’ 

‘ What do you mean, papa ? ’ 

‘ I see it now,’ continued Hr. May, incoherently ; 4 the cause of 
his wandering life — advantages thrown aside. He ! the most wor- 
thy. Things I little heeded at the time have come back on me! 
I understand why he banished himself ! ’ 

4 Why ? ’ asked Ethel, bewildered. 

4 She never had an idea of it ; but I might have guessed from 
what fell from him unconsciously, for not a word would he have 
said — nor did he say, to show how he sacrificed himself ! ’ 

4 Who was it ? Aunt Flora ? ’ said Ethel, beginning to collect 
his meaning. 

4 No, Ethel, it was your own dear mother ! You will think this 
another romantic fancy of mine, but I am sure of it.’ 

4 So am I,’ said Ethel. 

4 How — what ? Ah ! I remembered, after we parted, that he 
might know nothing — ’ 

4 He asked me,’ said Ethel. 

4 And how did he bear it ? ’ 

Ethel told, and the tears filled her father’s eyes. 4 It was wrong 
and cruel in me to bring him home unprepared ! and then to leave 
it to you. I always forget other people’s feelings. Poor Spencer ! 
And now, Ethel, you see what manner of man we have here, and 
how we ought to treat him.’ 

4 Indeed I do I ’ 

4 The most unselfish — the most self-sacrificing — ’ continued 
J)r. May. 4 And to see what it all turned on ! I happened to have 
this place open to me — the very cause, perhaps, of my having taken 
things easy — and so the old professor threw opportunities in my 
way ; while Aubrey Spencer, with every recommendation that man 
could have, was set aside, and exiled himself, leaving the station, 
and all he might so easily have gained. Ah, Ethel, Sir Matthew 
Fleet never came near him in ability. But not one word to inter- 
fere with me, would he say, and — how I have longed to meet him 
again, after parting in my selfish, unfeeling gladness ; and now I 
have nothing to do for him, but show him how little I was to be 
trusted with her.’ 

Ethel never knew how to deal with these occasional bursts of 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 107 

grief, but sbe said that she thought Dr. Spencer was very much 
pleased to have met with him, and delighted with the children. 

( Ah! well, you are her children,’ said Dr. May, with his hand 
on Ethel’s shoulder. 

So they went down-stairs, and found Mary making tea; and 
Margaret, fearing Dr. Spencer was overwhelmed with his young 
admirers — for Aubrey and Gertrude were one on each knee, and 
Blanche standing beside him, inflicting on him a catalogue of the 
names and ages of all the eleven. 

1 Ethel has introduced you, I see,’ said Dr. May. 

£ Aye, I assure you, it was an alarming introduction. No sooner 
do I enter your garden, than I hear that I am in the midst of the 
Forty Thieves. I find a young lady putting the world to death, 
after the fashion of Hamlet — and, looking about to find what I have 
lost, I find this urchin has robbed me of my name — a property I 
supposed was always left to unfortunate travellers, however small 
they might be chopped themselves.’ 

‘ Well, Aubrey boy, will you make restitution ? ’ 

1 It is my name,’ said Aubrey, positively ; for, as his father added, 
1 He is not without dread of the threat being fulfilled, and himself 
left to be that Anon, who, Blanche says, writes so much poetry.’ 

Aubrey privately went to Ethel, to ask her if this were possible ; 
and she had to reassure him, by telling him that they were ‘ only in 
fun.’ 

It was fun with a much deeper current though ; for Dr. Spencer 
was saying, with a smile, between gratification and sadness, ‘ I did 
not think my name would have been remembered here so long.’ 

‘ We had used up mine, and the grandfathers’, and the uncles’, and 
began to think we might look a little further a-field,’ said Dr. May. 
1 If I had only known where you were, I would have asked you to 
be the varlet’s godfather ; but I was much afraid you were no where 
in the land of the living.’ 

1 I have but one godson, and he is coffee-coloured ! I ought to 
have written ; but, you see, for seven years I thought I was coming 
home.’ 

Aubrey had recovered sufficiently to observe to Blanche , 1 that was 
almost as bad as Ulysses,’ which, being overheard and repeated, led 
to the information that he was Ethel’s pupil, whereupon Dr. Spencer 
began to inquire after the school, and to exclaim at his friend for 
having deserted it in the person of Tom. Dr. May looked con- 
victed, but said it was all Norman’s fault ; and Dr. Spencer, shaking 
his head at Blanche, opined that the young gentleman was a great 
innovator, and that lie was sure he was at the bottom of the pulling 
down the Market Cross, and the stopping up Kandall’s Alley — 
iniquities of the “ nasty people,” of which she already had mado 
him aware. # 

1 Poor Norman, he suffered enough anent Kandall’p Alley,’ said 


108 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Dr. May ; ‘ but as to the Market Cross, that came down a year befor« 
he was born.’ 

I It was the Town Council ! ’ said Ethel. 

« One of the ordinary stultifications of Town Councils ? ’ — 

‘ Take care, Spencer,’ said Dr. May. ‘lama Town Councilman 
myself — ’ 

‘ You, Dick ! ’ and he turned with a start of astonishment, and 
went into a fit of laughing, re-echoed by all the young ones, who 
were especially tickled by hearing, from another, the abreviation 
that had, hitherto, only lived in the favourite expletive , 1 As sure as 
my name is Dick May.’ 

‘ Of course,’ said Dr. May. “ 1 Dost thou not suspect my place ? 
Dost thou not suspect my years ? One that hath two gowns, and 
everything handsome about him ! ’” 

His friend laughed the more, and they betook themselves to the 
College stories, of which the quotation from Dogberry seemed to 
have reminded them. 

There was something curious and affecting in their manner to 
each other. Often it was the easy bantering familiarity of the two 
youths they had once been together, with somewhat of elder 
brotherhood on Dr. Spencer’s side — and of looking up on Dr. 
May’s — and just as they had recurred to these terms, some 
allusion would bring back to Dr. Spencer, that the heedless, high- 
spirited “ Dick,” whom he had always had much ado to keep out of 
scrapes, was a householder, a man of weight and influence; a 
light which would at first strike him as most ludicrous, and then 
mirth would end in a sigh, for there was yet another aspect! 
After having thought of him so long as the happy husband of Margaret 
Mackenzie, he found her place vacant, and the trace of deep grief 
apparent on the countenance, once so gay — Hie oppression of anxiety 
marked on the brow, formerly so joyous, the merriment almost more 
touching than gravity would have been, for the former nature 
seemed rather shattered than altered. In merging towards this 
side, there was a tender respect in Dr. Spencer’s manner that was 
most beautiful, though this evening such subjects were scrupu- 
lously kept at the utmost distance, by the constant interchange 
of new and old jokes and stories. 

Only when bed-time had come, and Margaret had been carried 
off — did a silence fall on the two friends, unbroken till Dr. May 
rose and proposed going up-stairs. When he gave his hand to wish 
good night, Dr. Spencer held it this time most carefully, and said, 
‘ Oh May ! I did not expect this ! ’ 

‘ I should have prepared you,’ said his host, ‘ but I never recollected 
ill at you knew nothing — ’ 

I I had dwelt on your happiness ! ’ 

1 There never were two happier creatures for twenty-two years, 
said Dr. May, his voice low with emotion. ‘ Sorrow spared her I 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


109 


Yes, think of her always in undimmed brightness — always smiling 
as you remember her — She was happy. She is,’ he concluded. His 
friend had turned aside and hidden his face with his hand, thee 
looked up for a moment, ‘ And you, Dick,’ he said briefly. 

I Sorrow spared her,’ was Hr. May’s first answer. ‘ And hers are 
very good children ! ’ 

There was a silence again, ending in Hr. May’s saying, ‘ What do 
you think of my poor girl ? 1 

They discussed the nature of the injury : Hr. Spencer could not 
feel otherwise than that it was a very hopeless matter. Her father 
owned that he had thought so from the first, and had wondered at 
Sir Matthew Fleet’s opinion. His subdued tone of patience and 
resignation, struck his guest above all, as changed from what he had 
once been. 

4 You have been sorely tried,’ he said, when they parted at his 
room door. 

I I have received much good ! ’ simply answered Hr. May. ‘ Good 
night ! I am glad to have you here — if you can bear it.’ 

1 Bear it ? Hick ! how like that girl is to you ! She is yourself ! ’ 

1 Such a self as I never was ! Good-night.’ 

Ethel overcame the difficulty of giving the account of the news- 
paper alarm, with a tolerable success, by putting the story of Meta’s 
conversation foremost. Margaret did not take it to heart as much 
as she had feared, nor’ did she appear to dwell on it afterwards. The 
truth was perhaps that Hr. Spencer’s visit was to everyone more of 
an excitement and amusement than it was to Ethel. Not that she 
did not like him extremely, but after such a week as she had been 
spending, the home-world seemed rather stale and unprofitable. 

Miss Bracy relapsed into a state of “ feelings,” imagining perhaps 
that Ethel had distrusted her capabilities, and therefore returned; 
or as Ethel herself sometimes feared, there might be an irritability 
in her own manner that gave cause of annoyance. The children 
were inclined to be riotous with their new friend, who made much of 
them continually, and especially patronized Aubrey ; Mary was proud 
of showing how much she had learnt to do for Margaret in her sister’s 
absence ; Hr. May was so much taken up with his friend, that Ethel 
saw less of him than usual, and she began to believe that it had been 
all a mistake that everyone was so dependant on her, for, in fact, they 
did much better without her. 

Meantime, she heard of the gaieties which the others were enjoy- 
ing, and she could not feel heroic when they regretted her. At 
the end of a week, Meta Rivers was escorted home from Warwick by 
two servants, and came to Stoneborough, giving a lively description 
of all the concluding pleasures, but declaring that Ethel’s departure 
had taken away the zest of the whole, and Mr. Ogilvie had been very 
disconsolate. Margaret had not been prepared to hear that Mr. 
Ogilvie had been so constant a companion, and was struck by finding 


110 


THE DAISY ."IIAIN. 


that Ethel had passed over one who had evidently been so great an 
ingredient in the delights of the expedition. Meta had, however 
observed nothing — she was a great deal too simple and too much 
engrossed for such notions to have crossed her mind ; but Margaret 
inferred something, and hoped to learn more when she should sec 
Flora. This would not be immediately. George and his wife were 
gone to London, and thence intended to pay a round of visits ; and 
Norman had accompanied his namesake to Glenbracken. 

Ethel fought hard with her own petulance and sense of tedium 
at home, which was, as she felt, particularly uncalled for at present ; 
when Dr. Spencer was enlivening them so much. He was , never 
in the way, he was always either busy in the dining-room in the 
morning with books and papers, or wandering about his old 
school-boy haunts in the town, or taking Adams’ place, and driving 
out Dr. May, or sometimes joining the children in a walk, to their 
supreme delight. His sketches, for he drew most beautifully, were 
an endless pleasure to Margaret, with his explanations of them — she 
even tried to sit up to copy them, and he began to teach Blanche 
draw. The evenings, when there was certain to be some entertaining 
talk going on between the two Doctors, were very charming, and 
Margaret seemed quite revived by seeing her father so happy with 
his friend. Ethel knew she ought- to be happy also, and if attention 
could make her so, she had it, for kind and courteous as Dr. Spencer 
was to all, she seemed to have a double charm for him. It was as 
if he found united in her the quaint brusquerie , that he had loved in 
her father, with somewhat of her mother ; for though Ethel had less 
personal resemblance to Mrs. May than any other of the family, 
Dr. Spencer transferred to her much of the chivalrous distant 
devotion, with which he had regarded her mother. Ethel was very 
little conscious of it, but he was certainly her sworn knight, and 
there was an eagerness in his manner of performing every little 
service for her, a deference in his way of listening to her, over and 
above his ordinary polish of manner. 

Ethel lighted up, and enjoyed herself when talking was going on 
— her periods of ennui were when she had to set about any homo 
employment — when Aubrey’s lessons did not go well — when she 
wanted to speak to her father, and could not catch him ; and even 
when she had to go to Cocksmoor. 

She did not seem tc make any progress there — the room was 
eery full, and very close, the children were dull, and she began to 
believe she was doing no good — it was all a weariness. But she 
was so heartily ashamed of her feelings, that she worked the more 
vehemently for them, and the utmost show that they outwardly made 
was, that Margaret thought her less vivacious than her wont, and 
she was a little too peremptory at times with Mary and Blanche. 
She had so much disliked the display that Flora had made about 
Cocksmoor, that she had imposed total silence on it upon hei 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Ill 


younger sisters, and Dr. Spencer had spent a fortnight at Stone- 
borough without being aware of their occupation; when there 
occurred such an extremely sultry day, that Margaret remonstrated 
with Ethel on her intention of broiling herself and Mary by walking 
to Cocksmoor, when the quicksilver stood at 80° in the shade. 

Ethel was much inclined to stay at home, but she did not know 
whether this was from heat or from idleness, and her fretted spirits 
took the turn of determination — so she posted off at a gallopping 
pace, that her brothers called her 1 Cocksmoor speed,’ and Mary 
panted by her side, humbly petitioning for the plantation path, when 
she answered 1 that it was as well to bo hot in the sun as in the shade.’ 

The school-room was unusually full, all the haymaking mothers 
made it serve as an infant school, and though as much window was 
opened as there could be, the effect was not coolness. Nevertheless, 
Ethel sat down and gathered her class round her, and she had just 
heard the chapter once read, when there was a little confusion, a 
frightened cry of “ Ethel ! ” and before she could rise to her feet — 
a flump upon the floor — poor Mary had absolutely fainted dead away. 

Ethel was much terrified, and very angry with herself; Mary 
was no light weight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry, helped 
Ethel to drag her into the outer room, where she soon began to re- 
cover, and to be excessively puzzled as to what had happened to 
her. She said the sea was roaring, and where was Harry ? and then 
she looked much surprised to find herself lying on Mrs. Elwooa’s 
damp flags — a circumstance extremely distressing to Mrs. Elwood, 
who wanted to carry her up-stairs into Cherry’s room, very clean 
and very white, but with such a sun shining full into it ! 

Ethel lavished all care, and reproached herself greatly, though 
to be sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, 
and Mary herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the 
children’s voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves 
of the sea, and therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, 
and asked whether Harry would ever come back. The tears did 
her a great deal of good, though not so much as the being petted 
by Ethel, and she soon declared herself perfectly well; but Ethel 
could not think of letting her walk home, and sent off a boy — who 
she trusted would not faint — with a note to Margaret, desiring her 
to send the gig, which fortunately was at home to-day. 

Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood’s tea, which, though 
extremely bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite re- 
vived, in the arbour at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. 
Spencer walked in. 

1 Well, and how are you ? ’ 

1 Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened ? Why 
did you come ? ’ 

‘ I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at 
home. Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a 


112 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


doctor but your papa ? There’s not much the matter with you 
however. Where is Ethel ? 5 

‘ In the school,’ and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked 
in, as Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman’s look 

‘ No wonder \ ’ was all he said. 

Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, 
he said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under 
the circumstances. ‘ How many human creatures do you keep 
there ? ’ he asked. 

1 Forty-seven to-day,’ said Mary, proudly. 

* I shall indict you for cruelty to animals ! I think I have 
known it hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs ! ’ 

‘ It is very wrong of me,’ said Ethel. ‘ I should have thought 
of poor. Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains.’ 

‘ Oh, never mind,’ said Mary, ‘ it did not hurt.’ 

‘ I’m not thinking of Mary,’ said Dr. Spencer, ‘ but of the 
wretched beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the 
mercury would be there.’ 

‘We cannot help it,’ said Mary. ‘ We cannot get the ground.’ 

And Mary having been voted into the seat of honour and com- 
fort, by his side, in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and 
the Committee ; while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, 
severely reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards 
one so good and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering 
far more on Harry’s account than they had guessed, and who was 
so simple and thoroughgoing in doing her duty. This was not being 
a good elder sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, 
and shewed so much remorse, that poor Mary was quite shocked, 
and cried so bittsrly, that it was necessary to quit the subject. 

‘ Ethel, dearest,’ said Margaret, that night, after they were in 
bed, ‘ is there anything the matter ? ’ 

‘ No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoilt me,’ said Ethel, reso- 
lutely. ‘ I am very cross and selfish ! ’ 

‘ It will be better by-and-by,’ said Margaret, ‘ if only you arc 
sure you have nothing to make you unhappy.’ 

1 Nothing,’ said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed 
of her fancy to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the 
truth. Pleasure had spoilt her. 

‘ If only we could do something for Cocksmoor ! ’ she sighed, 
presently, ‘ with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle.’ 

Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this 
channel, but it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be 
nothing practicable, present or future. The ground could not be 
had — the pig would not get over the stile — the old woman could 
not get home to-night. Cocksmoor must put up with its presen I 
school, and Mary must not be walked to death. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


113 


Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. 
One great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the 
daily details of life. 


CHAPTER XI. 


‘ If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had been Churches and 
poor men’s cottages, princes’ palaces.’ 

Merchant op Venice. 


Dick, 7 said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, 
after Mary’s swoon, ‘ you seem to have found an expedient for 
making havoc among your daughters.’ 

‘ It does not hurt them,’ said Dr. May, carelessly. 

‘ Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day.’ 

1 That was chance.’ 

1 If you like it, I have no more to say ; but I should like to make 
you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine — ’ 

* Very fine talking, but I would not take the Responsibility of 
hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that un- 
lucky place. You don’t know that girl Ethel. She began at 
fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any 
of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, 
and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, 
healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm — rather 
good.’ 

1 Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine ? ’ 

‘ Can’t be helped. Wliat would you have said if you had seen 
the last ? ’ 

1 What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand ? ’ 

1 The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of 
which, hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the 
money, but the land can’t be had.’ 

1 Why not ? ’ 

1 Tied up between the Dry dale Estate and College, and in 

the hands of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an applica- 
tion made to the College, but they did not begin at the right end.’ 

1 Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy ! ’ cried his friend, 
rather indignantly. 

‘I own I have not stirred in the matter,’ said Dr. May. ‘I 
knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women 
that our schools are ridden with — ’ and, as he heard a sound a little 
like 1 pish ! ’ he continued, and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely 
useless to work with such a head — or no head. There’s nothing for 
It, but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, 
insubordinate action.’ 


114 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN". 


1 You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed ! ’ 

1 The cure is worse than the disease ! ’ 

I There spoke the Corporation ! ’ 

Ah ! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore.’ 

‘ Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos 
praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys 
in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could 
be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming 
it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for 
the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee, swinging on hooks in 
his sides.’ 

Hr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a 
mission in his former remote station ; and his brown godson, once 
a Brahmin, now an exemplary Clergyman, traced his conversion to 
the friendship, and example, of the English physician. 

‘ Well, I have lashed about me at abuses, in my time,’ said Dr. 
May. 

I I dare say you have, Dick ! ’ and they both laughed — the in- 
considerate way was so well delineated. 

‘ J ust so,’ replied Dr. May ; 1 and I made enemies enough to 
fetter me now. I do not mean that I have done right — I have not ; 
but there is a good deal on my hands, and I don’t write easily. I 
have been slower to take up new matters than I ought to have been.’ 

‘ I see, I see ! ’ said Dr. Spencer, rather sorry for his implied re- 
proach, ‘ but must Cocksmoor be left to its fate, and your gallant 
daughter to hers ? ’ 

‘ The Y icar won’t stir. He is indolent enough by nature, and 
worse with gout; and I do not see what good I could do. I once 
offended the tenant, Nicolson, by fining him, for cheating his un- 
happy labourers, on the abominable truck system; and he had 
rather poison me, than do anything to oblige me. And, as to the 
copyholder, he is a fine gentleman, who never comes near the place, 
nor does anything for it.’ 

‘ Who is he ? ’ 

* Sir Henry Walkinghame.’ 

‘ Sir Henry Walkinghame ! I know the man. I found him in 
one of the caves at Thebes, among the mummies, laid up with a 
fever, nearly ready to be a mummy himself ! I remember bleeding 
him — irregular, was not it ? but one does not stand on ceremony 
in Pharaoh’s tomb. I got him through with it ; we came up the 
Nile together, and the last I saw of him was at Alexandria. He is 
your man ! .something might be done with him ! ’ 

1 1 believe Flora promises to ask him if she should ever meet 
him in London, but he is always away. If ever we should be hap- 
py enough to get an active incumbent, we shall have a chance.’ 

Two days after, Ethel came down equipped for Cocksmoor. It 
was as hot as ever, and Mary was ordered to stay at home, being 


THE DAISY CHAIN/ 115 

somewhat pacified by a promise that she should go again as soon as 
the weather was fit for anything but a salamander. 

Dr. Spencer was in the hall, with his bamboo, his great Panama 
hat, and grey loose coat, for he entirely avoided, except on Sundays, 
the medical suit of black. He offered to relieve Ethel of her bag 
of books. 

* No thank you. 1 (He had them by this time). 4 But I am 
going to Cocksmoor.’ 

‘ Will you allow me to be your companion ? ’ 

1 1 shall be very glad of the pleasure of your company, but I am 
not in the least afraid of going alone,’ said she, smiling, however, so 
as to shew she was glad of such pleasant company. ‘ I forewarn 
you though that I have business there.’ 

4 1 will find occupation.’ 

1 And you must promise not to turn against me. I have under- 
gone a great deal already about that place. Norman was always 
preaching against it, and now that he has become reasonable, I 
can’t have papa set against it again — besides, he would mind you 
more.’ 

Dr. Spencer promised to do nothing but what was quite reason- 
able. Ethel believed that he accompanied her merely because his 
gallantry would not suffer her to go unescorted, and she was not 
sorry, for it was too long a walk for solitude to be very agreeable, 
when strange waggoners might be on the road, though she had 
never let them be 44 lions in the path.” 

The walk was as pleasant as a scorching sun would allow, and 
by the time they arrived at the scattered cottages, Ethel had been 
drawn into explaining many of her Cocksmoor perplexities. 

4 If you could get the land granted, where should you choose to 
have it ? ’ he asked. 4 You know it will not do to go and say, 44 Be 
pleased to give me a piece of land,” without specifying what, or 
you might chance to have one at the Land’s End.’ 

4 1 see, that was one of the blunders,’ said Ethel. 4 But I had 
often thought of this nice little square place, between two gardens, 
and sheltered by the old quarry.’ 

4 Ha ! hardly space enough, I should say,’ replied Dr. Spencer, 
stepping it out. 4 No, that won’t do, so confined by the quarry. 
Let us look further.’ 

A surmise crossed Ethel. Could he be going to take the work 
on himself, but that was too wild a supposition — she knew he had 
nothing of his own, only a moderate pension from the East India 
Company. 

4 What do you think of this ? ’ he said, coming to the slope of a 
knoll, commanding a pretty view of the Abbotstoke woods, clear 
from houses, and yet not remote from the hamlet. She agreed that 
it would do well, and he kicked up a bit of turf, and pryed into the 
coil, pronouncing it dry, and fit for a good foundation. Then ho 


116 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


began to step it out. making a circuit that amazed her, but he said, 

‘ It is of no use to do it at twice. Your school can be only the first 
step towards a Church, and you had better have room enough at 
once. It will serve as an endowment in the meantime.’ 

He would not let her remain in the sun, and she went into 
school. She found him, when she came out, sitting in the arbour, 
smoking a cigar — rather a shock to her feelings, though he threw 
it away the instant she appeared, and she excused him for his 
foreign habits. 

In the evening, he brought down a traveller’s case of instru- 
ments, and proceeded to draw a beautiful little map of Cocksmoor, 
where it seemed that he had taken all his measurements, whilst she 
was in school. He ended by an imaginary plan and elevation for 
the school, with a pretty oriel window and bell-gable, that made 
Ethel sigh with delight at the bare idea. 

Next day, he vanished after dinner, but this he often did ; he 
used to say he must go and have a holiday of smoking — he could 
not bear too much civilized society. He came back for tea, how- 
ever, and had not sat down long before he said, 1 Now, I know all 
about it. I shall pack up my goods, and be off for Vienna to- 
morrow.’ 

‘ To Vienna! ’ was the general and dolorous outcry, and Ger- 
trude laid hold of him and said he should not go. 

‘ I am coming back,’ he said, 1 if you will have me. The Col- 
lege holds a Court at Fordholm, on the 3rd, and, on the last of this 
month, I hope to return.’ 

1 College ! Court ! What are you going to do at Vienna ? 
Where have you left your senses ? ’ asked Hr. May. 

‘ I find Sir Henry Walkinghame is there. I have been on an 
exploring expedition to Dry dale, found out his man of business, and 
where he is to be written to. The College holds a Court at Ford- 
holm, and I hope to have our business settled.’ 

Ethel was too much confounded to speak. Her father was ex- 
claiming on the shortness of the time. 

1 Plenty of time,’ said Hr. Spencer, demonstrating that he should 
be able to travel comfortably, and have four days to spare at Vien- 
na — a journey, which he seemed to think less of, than did Mr. May 
of going to London. 

As to checking him, of that there was no possibility, nor, indeed, 
notion, though Ethel did not quite know how to believe in it, nor 
that the plan could come to good. Ethel was much better by this 
time : by her vigorous efforts, she had recovered her tone of mind 
and interest in what was passing ; and though, now and then Nor- 
man’s letters, carrying sentences of remembrance, made her glow a 
little, she was so steady to her resolution that she averted all traffic 
in messages through her brother’s correspondence, and, in that fear, 
allowed it to lapse into Margaret’s hands more than she had ever 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


117 


done. Indeed, no one greatly liked writing from home, it was 
heartless work to say always, ‘ No news from the Alcestis,’ and yet 
they all declared they were not anxious. 

Hector Ernescliffe knelt a great while beside Margaret’s sofa, 
on the first evening of his holidays, and there was a long low-voiced 
talk between them. Ethel wished that she had warned him off, for 
Margaret looked much more harassed and anxious, after having 
heard the outpouring of all that was on his mind. 

Dr. Spencer thought her looking worse, when he came, as come 
he did, on the appointed day. He had brought Sir Henry Walk- 
inghame’s full consent to the surrender of the land ; drawn up in 
such form as could be acted upon, and a letter to his man of busi- 
ness. But Nicolson ! He was a worse dragon nearer home, hating 
all schools, especially hating Dr. May. 

However, said Dr. Spencer, in eastern form, £ Have I en- 
countered Bajahs, and smoked pipes with three-tailed Pachas, that 
I should dread the face of the father of quarrymen ? ’ 

What he did with the father of quarrymen was not known, 
whether he talked him over, or bought him off — Margaret hoped 
the former ; Dr. May feared the latter ; the results were certain ; 
Mr. Nicolson had agreed that the land should be given up. 

The triumphant Dr. Spencer sat down to write a statement to 
be shewn to the College authorities, when they should come to hold 
their court. 

‘ The land must be put into the hands of trustees,’ he said. 

‘ The incumbent of course ? ’ 

i Then yourself ; and we must have another. Your son-in-law ? ’ 

1 You, I should think,’ said Dr. May. 

1 1 ! Why, I am going.’ 

1 Going, but not gone,’ said his friend. 

‘ I must go ! I tell you, Dick ; I must have a place of my own 
to smoke my pipe in.’ 

1 Is that all ? ’ said Dr. May. 1 1 think you might be accommo- 
dated here, unless you wished to be near your sister.’ 

‘ My sister is always resorting to watering-places. My nieces 
do nothing but play on the piano. No, I shall perhaps go off to 
America, the only place I have not seen yet, and I more than half 
engaged to go and help at Poonshedagore.’ 

‘ Better order your coffin then,’ muttered Dr. May. 

‘ I shall try lodgings in London, near the old Hospital, perhaps 
— and go and turn over the British Museum library.’ 

‘ Look you here, Spencer, I have a much better plan. Do you 
know that scrap of a house of mine, by the back gate, just big 
enough for you and your pipe ? Set up your staff there. Ethel 
will never get her school built without you.’ 

1 Oh ! that would be capital ! ’ cried Ethel. 

‘ It would be tho best speculation for mo. You would pay rent, 


118 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and the last old woman never did,’ continued Dr. May. ‘ A garden 
the length of this one — ’ 

1 But I say — I want to be near the British Museum.’ 

‘ Take a season-ticket, and run up once a week.’ 

‘ 1 shall teach your boys to smoke ! ’ 

‘ I’ll see to that ! ’ 

‘ You have given Cocksmoor one lift,’ said Ethel, ‘ and it will 
never go on without you.’ 

‘ It is such a nice house ! ’ added the children, in chorus ; * it 
would be such fun to have you there.’ 

‘ Daisy will never be able to spare her other Doctor,’ said Mar- 
garet, smiling. 

‘ Bun to Mrs. Adams, Tom, and get the key,’ said Dr. May. 

There was a putting on of hats and bonnets, and the whole party 
walked down the garden to inspect the house — -a matter of curiosity 
to some — for it was where the old lady had resided on whom Harry 
had played so many tricks, and the subject of many myths hatched 
between him and George Larkins. 

It was an odd, little narrow slip of a house, four stories, of two 
rooms all the way up, each with a large window, with a marked 
white eye-brow. Dr. May eagerly pointed out all the conveniences, 
parlour, museum, smoking den, while Dr. Spencer listened, and 
answered doubtfully ; and the children’s clamorous anxiety seemed 
to render him the more silent. 

Hector Ernescliffe discovered a jack-daw’s nest in the chimney, 
whereupon the whole train rushed off to investigate, leaving the two 
Doctors and Ethel standing together in the empty parlour, Dr. May 
pressing, Dr. Spencer raising desultory objections ; but so evidently 
against his own wishes, that Ethel said, ‘ Now, indeed, you must 
not disappoint us all.’ 

‘ No,’ said Dr. May, ‘ it is a settled thing.’ 

‘ No, no, thanks, thanks to you all, but it cannot be. Let me 
go—’ and he spoke with emotion. ‘ You are very kind, but it is 
not to be thought of.’ 

‘ Why not V ’ said Dr. May. ‘ Spencer, stay with me — ’ and he 
spoke with a pleading, almost dependant air, ‘ Why should you 
go ? ’ 

‘ It is of no use to talk about it. You are very kind, but it will 
not do to encumber you with a lone man, growing old.’ 

‘ We have been young together,’ said Dr. May. 

‘ And you must not leave papa,’ added Ethel. 

‘No,’ said Dr. May. ‘Trouble may be at hand. Half us 
through with it. Bemember, these children have no uncles.’ 

‘ You will stay ? ’ said Ethel. 

He made a sign of assent — he could do no more, and just then, 
Gertrude came trotting back, so exceedingly smutty, as to call 
everyone’s attention. Hector had been shoving Tom half-way up 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


119 


the chimney, in hopes of reaching the nest ; and the consequences 
of this amateur chimney-sweeping had been a plentiful bespatterng 
of all the spectators with soot, that so greatly distressed the young 
ladies, that Mary and Blanche had fled away from public view. 

Dr. Spencer's first act of possession was, to threaten to pull Tom 
down by the heels, for disturbing his jackdaws, whereupon there 
was a general acclamation ; and Dr. May began to talk of maraud- 
ing times, when the jackdaws in the Minster tower had been harried. 

1 Ah ! ’ said Dr. Spencer, as Tom emerged, blacker than the out- 
raged jackdaws, and half choked, { what do you know about jack- 
daws’ nests ?• You that are no Whichcote scholars.’ 

1 Don’t we ? ’ cried Hector, ‘ when there is a jackdaw’s nest in 
Eton Chapel, twenty feet high.’ 

‘ Old Grey made that ! ’ said Tom, who usually acted the part 
of esprit fort to Hector’s credulity. 

‘ Why, there is a picture of it in Jesse’s book,’ said Hector. 

1 But may not we get up on the roof, to see if we can get at the 
nest, papa ? ’ said Tom. 

‘ You must ask Dr. Spencer. It is his house.’ 

Dr. Spencer did not gainsay it, and proceeded even to shew the 
old Whichcote spirit, by leading the assault, and promising to take 
care of Aubrey, while Ethel retained Gertrude, and her father too ; 
for Dr. May had such a great inclination to scramble up the ladder 
after them, that she, thinking it a dangerous experiment for so 
helpless an arm, was obliged to assure him that it would create a 
sensation among the gossiphood of Stoneborough, if their physician 
were seen disporting himself on the top of the house. 

1 Ah ! I’m not a physician unattached, like him,’ said Dr. May, 
laughing. ‘ Hollo ! have you got up, Tom ? There’s a door up 
there. I’ll show you — ’ 

‘ No, don’t papa. Think of Mrs. Ledwich ; and asking her to 
see two trustees up there ! ’ said Ethel. 

I Ah ! Mrs. Ledwich; what is to be done with her, Ethel ? ’ 

I I am sure I can’t tell. If Flora were but at home, she would 
manage it.’ 

‘ Spencer can manage anything! ’ was the answer. ‘ That was 
the happiest chance imaginable that you came home with me, and 
so we came to go by the same train.’ 

Ethel. was only afraid that time was being cruelly wasted; but 
the best men, and it is emphatically the best that generally are so 
— have the boy strong enough, on one side or other of their natures 
to be a great provocation to womankind ; and Dr. Spencer did not 
rest from his pursuit till the brood of the jackdaws had been dis* 
covered, and two grey-headed nestlings kidnapped, which were 
destined to a wicker cage, and education. Little Aubrey was 
beyond measure proud, and was suggesting all sorts of outrageous 
classical names for them, till politely told by Tom that lie would 


120 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


make them as great prigs as himself, and that their names should 
be nothing but Jack and Jill. 

1 There’s nothing for it but for Aubrey to go to school,’ cried 
Tom, sententiously turning round to Ethel. 

4 Aye, to Stoneborough,’ said Dr. Spencer. 

Tom coloured, as if sorry for his movement, and hastened away 
to make himself sufficiently clean to go in quest of a prison for his 
captives. 

Dr. Spencer began to bethink him of the paper that he had been 
so eagerly drawing up, and looking at his own begrimed hands, 
asked Ethel whether she would have him for a trustee." 

4 Will the other eight ladies ? ’ said Ethel, 4 that’s the point.’ 

4 Ha, Spencer ! you did not know what you were undertaking. 
Do you wish to be let off? ’ said Dr. May. 

4 Not I,’ said the undaunted Doctor. 4 Come, Ethel, let us hear 
what should be done.’ 

4 There’s no time,’ said Ethel, bewildered. 4 The Court will be 
only on the day after to-morrow.’ 

4 Ample time ! ’ said Dr. Spencer, who seemed ready to throw 
himself into it with all his might. 4 What we have to do is this. 
The ladies to be propitiated are — ’ 

4 Nine Muses, to whom you will have to act Apollo,’ said 
Dr. May, who, having put his friend into the situation, had a 
mischievous delight in laughing at him, and watching what he 
would do. 

4 One and two, Ethel, and Mrs. Divers ! ’ 

4 Rather eight and nine,’ said Ethel, 4 though Flora may be 
somebody now.’ 

4 Seven then,’ said Dr. Spencer. 4 Well then, Ethel, suppose we 
set out on our travels this afternoon. Visit these ladies, get them 
to call a meeting to-morrow, and sanction their three trustees.’ 

4 You little know what a work it is to call a meeting, or how 
many notes Miss Rich sends out before one can be accomplished.’ 

4 Faint heart — you know the proverb, Ethel, Allons. I’ll call 
on Mrs. Ledwich — ’ 

4 Stay,’ said Dr. May. 4 Let Ethel do that, and ask her to tea, 
and we will show her your drawing of the school.’ 

So the remaining ladies were divided — Ethel was to visit Miss 
Anderson, Miss Boulder, and Mrs. Ledwich ; Dr. Spencer, the rest, 
and a meeting, if possible, be appointed for the next day. 

Ethel did as she was told, though rather against the grain, and 
her short, abrupt manner, was excused the more readily, that Dr. 
Spencer had been a subject of much mysterious speculation in 
Stoneborough, and to gain any intelligence respecting him, was 
a great object j so that she was extremely welcome, wherever she 
called. 

Mrs. Ledwich promised to come to tea, and instantly prepared 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


121 


to walk to Miss Rich, and authorize her to send out the notes of 
summons to the morrow’s meeting. Ethel offered to walk with her, 
and found Mrs. and Miss Rich in a flutter, after Dr. Spencer’s call ; 
the daughter just going to put on her bonnet and consult Mrs. Led- 
wich, and both extremely enchanted with Dr. Spencer, who ‘ would 
be such an acquisition.’ 

The hour was fixed and the notes sent out, and Ethel met Dr. 
Spencer at the garden gate. 

‘ Well ! ’ he said, smiling, 1 I think we have fixed them off — 
have not we ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; but is it not heartless that everything should be done 
through so much nonsense ? ’ 

‘ Did you ever hear why the spire of Ulm Cathedral was never 
finished ? ’ said Dr. Spencer. 

1 No; why not ? ’ 

1 Because the citizens would accept no help from their , neigh- 
bours.’ 

‘ I am glad enough of help when it comes in the right way, and 
from good motives.’ 

1 There are more good motives in the world than you give people 
credit for, Ethel. You have a good father, good sense, and a good 
education ; and you have some perception of the system by which 
things like this should be done. Unfortunately, the system is in 
bad hands here, and these good ladies have been left to work for 
themselves, and it is no wonder that there is plenty of little self- 
importance, nonsense, and the like, among them ; but for their own 
sakes we should rather show them the way, than throw them over- 
board.’ 

I If they will be shown,’ said Ethel. 

I I can’t say they seemed to me so very formidable,’ said Dr. 
Spencer. 1 Gentle little women.’ 

‘ Oh ! it is only Mrs. Ledwich that stirs them up. I hope you 
are prepared for that encounter.’ 

Mrs. Ledwich came to tea, sparkling with black bugles, and was 
very patronizing and amiable. Her visits were generally subjects 
of great dread, lor she talked unceasingly, laid down the law, and 
overwhelmed Margaret with remedies; but to-night Dr. Spencer 
took her in hand. It was not that he went out of his ordinary self, 
he was always the same simple mannered, polished gentleman ; but 
it was this that told — she was evidently somewhat in awe of him— 
the refinement kept her in check. She behaved very quietly all the 
evening, admired the plans, consented to everything, and was scarce- 
ly Mrs. Ledwich ! 

1 You will get on now, Ethel,’ said Dr. May, afterwards. 
1 Never fear but that he will get the Ladies’ Committee well in 
hand.’ 

‘ Why do you think so, papa ? ’ 


122 


THE DAISY CHAIN - . 


‘ Never you fear — 

‘ That was all she could extract from him, though he looked 
very arch. 

The Ladies’ Committee accepted of their representatives with 
full consent ; and the indefatigable Dr. Spencer next had to hunt 
up the fellow trustee. He finally contrived to collect everyone he 
wanted at Fordholm, the case was laid before the College — the 
College was propitious, and, by four o’clock in the evening, Dr. 
Spencer laid before Ethel the promise of the piece cf land. 

Mary’s joy was unbounded, and Ethel blushed, and tried to 
thank. This would have been the summit of felicity a year ago, 
and she was vexed with herself for feeling that though land and 
money were both in such safe hands, she could not care sufficiently 
to feel the ecstacy the attainment of her object would once have 
given to her. Then she would have been frantic with excitement, 
and heedless of everything ; now she took it so composedly as to 
annoy herself. 

‘ To think of that one week at Oxford having so entirely turned 
this head of mine ! ’ 

Perhaps it was the less at home, because she had just heard that 
George and Flora had accepted an invitation to Glenbracken, but 
though the zest of Cocksmoor might be somewhat gone, she called 
herself to order, and gave her full attention to all that was planned 
by her champion. 

Never did man plunge into business more thoroughly than he, 
when he had once undertaken it. He was one of those men who, 
from gathering particulars of every practical matter that comes 
under their notice, are able to accomplish well whatever they set 
their hand to ; and building was not new to him, though his former 
subjects — a Church and Mission station in India — bore little re- 
membrance to the present. 

He bought a little round dumpling of a white pony, and trotted 
all over the country in search of building materials and builders, 
he discovered trees in distant timber-yards, he brought home speci- 
mens of stone, one in each pocket, to compare and analyze, he went 
to London to look at model schools, he drew plans each more neat 
and beautiful than the last, he compared builders’ estimates, and 
wrote letters to the National Society, so as to be able to begin in 
the spring. 

In the meantime he was settling himself, furnishing his new 
house with great precision and taste. He would have no assist- 
ance in his choice, either of servants or furniture, but made nu ■ 
merous journeys of inspection to Whitford, to Malvern, and to 
London, and these seemed to make him the more content with 
Stoneborough. Sir Matthew Fleet had evidently chilled him, and 
as he found his own few remaining relations uncongenial, he be- 
came the more ready to find a resting place in the grey old town, 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


123 


the scenes of liis scliool life, beside the friend of his youth, and the 
children of her, for whose sake he had never sought a home of his 
own. Though he now and then talked of seeing America, or of 
going back to India, in hopes of assisting his beloved mission at 
Poonshedagore ; these plans were fast dying away, as he formed 
habits and attachments, and perceived the sphere of usefulness open 
to him. 

It was a great step when his packages arrived, and his beautiful 
Indian curiosities were arranged, making his drawing-room as pretty 
a room as could anywhere be seen ; in readiness, as he used to tell 
Ethel, for a grand tea-party for all the Ladies’ Committee, when he 
should borrow her and the best silver tea-pot to preside. Moreover 
he had a chemical apparatus, a telescope, and microscope, of great 
power, wherewith he tried experiments that were the height of 
felicity to Tom and Ethel, and much interested their father. He 
made it his business to have full occupation for himself, with plans, 
books, or correspondence, so as not to be a charge on the hands of 
the May family, with whom he never spent an evening without 
special and earnest invitation. 

He gave attendance at the hospital on alternate days, as well as 
taking off Dr. May’s hands such of his gratuitous patients as were 
not averse to quit their old Doctor, and could believe in a physi- 
cian in shepherd’s plaid, and Panama hat. Exceedingly sociable, 
he soon visited every one far and wide, and went to every sort of 
party, from the grand dinners of the “ county families,” to the tea 
drinkings of the Stoneborough ladies, a welcome guest at all, and 
enjoying each in his own way. English life was so new to him that 
he entered into the little accessories with the zest of a youth ; and 
there seemed to be a curious change between the two old fellow 
students, the elder and more staid of former days having come 
back with unencumbered freshness to enliven his friend, just begin- 
ning to grow aged under the wear of care and sorrows. 

It was very droll to hear Dr. May laughing at Dr. Spenc'er’s 
histories of his adventures, and at the new aspects in which his own 
well-trodden district appeared to travelled eyes ; and not less amus- 
ing was Dr. Spencer’s resolute defence of all the Nine Muses, gene- 
rally and individually. 

He certainly had no reason to think ill of them. As one woman, 
they were led by him, and conformed their opinions. The only 
seceder was Louisa Anderson, who had her brother for her oracle ; 
and, indeed, the more youthful race, to whom Harvey was the glass 
of fashion, uttered disrespectful opinions as to the Doctor’s age, and 
would not accede to his being, as Mrs. Ledwich declared, ‘ much 
younger than Dr. May.’ 

Harvey Anderson had first attempted patronage, then argument, 
with Dr. Spencer, but found him equally impervious to both. 4 Very 


124 


THE [DAISY CHAIN. 


clever, but an old world man,’ said Harvey. ‘ He lias made up hit 
bundle of prejudices.’ 

‘ Clever sort of lad ! ’ said Dr. Spencer, ‘ a cool band, but very 
shallow — ’ 

Ethel wondered to hear thus lightly disposed of, the powers of 
argument that had been thought fairly able to compete with Nor' 
man, and which had taxed him so severely. She did not know how 
differently abstract questions appear to a mature mind, confirmed 
in principle by practice ; and to one young, struggling in self- 
formation, and more used to theories than to realities. 


CHAP TEE XII. 

The heart may ache, but may not burst ; 

Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake. 

Christian Year. 

Hector and Tom finished their holidays by a morning’s shooting 
at the Grange, Dr. May promising, to meet them, and let them drive 
him home. 

Meta was out, when he arrived ; and, repairing to the library, 
he found Mr. Eivers sitting by a fire, though it was early in Sep- 
tember, with the newspaper before him, but not reading. He 
looked depressed, and seemed much disappointed at having heard 
that George and Flora had accepted some further invitations in 
Scotland, and did not intend to return for another month. Dr. May 
spoke cheerfully of the hospitality and kindness they had met, but 
failed to enliven him, and, as if trying to assign some cause for his 
vexation, he lamented over fogs and frosts, and began to dread 
an October in Scotland for Flora, almost as if it were the Arctic 
regions. 

He grew somewhat more animated in praising Flora, and speak- 
ing of the great satisfaction he had in seeing his son married to so 
admirable a person. He only wished it could be the same with his 
daughter. 

1 You are a very unselfish father,’ said Dr. May. ‘ 1 cannot 
imagine you without your little fairy.’ 

k It would be hard to part,’ said Mr. Eivers, sighing ; ‘Yet I 
should be relieved to see her in good hands, so pretty and engaging 
as she is, and something of an heiress. With our dear Flora, she 
is secure of a happy home when I am gone, but still I should be 
glad to have seen — ’ and he broke off thoughtfully. 

‘ She is so sensible, that we shall see her make a good choice, 
said Dr. May, smiling ; ‘ that is, if she choose at all, for I do not 
know who is worthy of her.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 125 

1 1 am quite indifferent as to fortune,’ continued Mr. Rivers. 
She will have enough of her own.’ 

1 Enough not to be dependant, which is the point,’ said Dr. May, 
though I should have few fears for her any way.’ 

1 It would be a comfort,’ harped on Mr. Rivers, dwelling on 
the subject, as if he wanted to say something, ‘ if she were only 
safe with a man who knew how to value her, and make her 
happy. Such a young man as your Norman, now — I have often 
thought — ’ 

Dr. May would not seem to hear, but he could not prevent him- 
self from blushing as crimson as if he had been the very Norman, 
as he answered, going on with his own speech, as if Mr. Rivers’? 
had been unmade : * She is the brightest little creature under the 
sun, and the sparkle is down so deep within, that however it may 
turn out, I should never fear for her happiness.’ 

1 Flora is my great reliance,’ proceeded Mr. Rivers. 1 Her aunt, 
Lady Leonora, is very kind, but somehow she does not seem to suit 
with Meta.’ 

O ho, thought the Doctor, have you made tliqt discovery, my 
good friend ? 

The voices of the two boys were heard in the hall, explaining 
their achievements to Meta, and Dr. May took his departure, Hec- 
tor driving him, and embarking in a long discourse on his own 
affairs, as if he had quite forgotten that the Doctor was not his 
father, and going on emphatically, in spite of the absence of mind 
now and then betrayed by his auditor, who, at Dr. Spencer’s 
door, exclaimed, c Stop, Hector, let me out here — thank you ; ’ and 
presently brought out his friend into the garden, and sat down 
on the grass, talking low, and earnestly, over the disease with 
which Mr. Rivers had been so long affected ; for though Dr. May 
could not perceive any positively unfavourable symptom, he had been 
rendered vaguely uneasy by the unusual heaviness and depression 
of manner. So long did they sit conversing, that Blanche was 
sent out, primed with an impertinent message, that two such old 
Doctors ought to be ashamed of themselves for sitting so late in 
the dew. 

Dr. Spencer was dragged in to drink tea, and the meal had just 
been merrily concluded, when the door-bell rang, and a message was 
brought in. 1 The carriage from the Grange, sir — Miss Rivers 
would be much obliged if you would come directly.’ 

‘ There ! ’ said Dr. May, looking at Dr. Spencer, as if to 
say I told you so ; in the first triumph of professional sagacity ; 
but the next moment exclaiming, 1 Poor little Meta ! ’ he hurried 
away. 

A gloom fell’ on those who remained, for, besides their sympa- 
thy for Meta, and their liking for her kind old father, there was 
that one unacknowledged heartache, which, though in general brave- 


126 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


ly combated, lay in wait always ready to prey on tliem. Hector 
stole round to sit by Margaret, and Dr. Spencer muttered, “ this 
will never do,” and sent Tom to fetch some papers lying on his 
table, whence he read them some curious accounts that he had just 
received from his Missionary friends in India* 

They were interested, but in a listening mood, that caused a 
universal start when the bell again sounded. This time, James 
reported that the servant from the Grange said his master was very 
ill — he had brought a letter to post for Mr. George Rivers, and here 
was a note for Miss Ethel. It was the only note Ethel had ever 
received from her father, and only contained these few words : — 

Dear E. 

I believe tbis attack will be the last. Como to Meta, and bring 

my things. R. M. 

Ethel put her hands to her forehead. It was as if she had been 
again plunged into the stunned dream of misery of four years ago, 
and her sensation was of equal bewilderment, and uselessness, but it 
was but for a moment — the next she was in a state of over bustle 
and eagerness. She wanted to fly about and hasten to help Meta, 
and could hardly obey the word and gesture by which Margaret 
summoned her to her side. 

‘ Dear Ethel, you must calm yourself, or you will not be of 
ase.’ 

‘ I ? I can’t be of any use ! Oh ! if you could go ! If Flora 
were but here ! But I must go, Margaret.’ 

‘ I will put up your father’s things,’ said Dr. Spencer, in a sooth- 
ing tone. ‘ The carriage cannot be ready in a moment, so that 
there will be full time.’ 

Mary and Miss Bracy prepared Ethel’s own goods, which she 
would otherwise have forgotten; and Margaret, meanwhile, de- 
tained her by her side, trying to calm and encourage her with gentle 
words of council, that might hinder her from giving way to the 
flurry of emotion that had seized her, and prevent her from think- 
ing herself certain to be useless. 

Adams was to drive ner thither in the gig, and it presently came 
to the door. Dr. Spencer wrapped her up well in cloaks and shawls, 
and spoke words of kindly cheer in her ear as she set off. The 
fresh night air blew pleasantly on her, the stars glimmered in full 
glory over head, and now and then her eye was caught by the rock- 
et-like track of a shooting-star. Orion was rising slowly far in the 
east, and bringing to her mind the sailor-boy under the southern 
sky ; if, indeed, he were not where sun and stars no more are the 
light. It -was strange that the thought came more as soothing than 
as acute pain ; she could bear to think of him thus in her present 
frame, as long as she had not to talk of him. Under those solemn 
stars, the Life Everlasting seemed to overpower the sense of this 
mortal life and Ethel’s agitation was calmed away. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


121 


The old cedar-tree stood up in stately blackness against the sky. 
and the lights in the house glanced behind it. The servants looked 
rather surprised to see Ethel, as if she were not expected, and con- 
ducted her to the great drawing-room, which looked the more deso- 
late and solitary, from the glare of lamplight, falling on the empty 
seats which Ethel had lately seen filled with a glad, home party. 
She was looking round, thinking whether to venture up to Meta’s 
room, and there summon Bellairs, when Meta came gliding in, and 
threw her arms round her. Ethel could not speak, but Meta’s voice 
was more cheerful than she had expected. ‘ How kind of vou, dear 
Ethel ! ’ 

‘ Papa sent for me,’ said Ethel. 

‘ He is so kind ! Can Margaret spare you ? ’ 

‘ Oh, yes ! but you must leave me. You must want to be with 
him.’ 

‘ He never lets me come in when he has these attacks,’ said 
Meta. ‘ If -he only would ! But will you come up to my room ? 
That is nearer.’ 

‘ Is papa with him ? ’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

Meta wound her arms round Ethel, and led her up to her sit- 
ting-room, where a book lay on the table. She said that her father 
had seemed weary and torpid, and had sat still until almost their 
late dinner hour, when he seemed to bethink himself of dressing, 
and had risen. She thought he walked weakly, and rather tottering, 
and had run to make him lean on her, which he did, as far as his 
own room door. There he had kissed her, and thanked her, and 
murmured a word like blessing. She had not, however, been 
alarmed, until his servant had come to tell her that he had another 
seizure. 

Ethel asked whether she had seen Dr. May since he had been 
with her father. She had ; but Ethel was surprised to find that 
she had not taken in the extent of his fears. She had become so 
far accustomed to these attacks, that, though anxious and distressed, 
she did not apprehend more than a few days’ weakness, and her 
chief longing was to be of use. She was speaking cheerfully of be- 
ginning her nursing to-morrow, and of her great desire that her papa 
would allow her to sit up with him, when there was a slow, 
reluctant movement of the lock of the door, and the two girls sprang 
to their feet, as Dr. May opened it ; and Ethel read his countenance 
at once. 

Not so Meta. 1 How is he ? May I go to him ? ’ cried she. 

‘ Not now, my dear,’ said Dr. May, putting his hand on her 
shoulder, in a gentle, detaining manner, that sent a thrill of trem- 
bling through her frame, though she did not otherwise move. She 
only clasped her hands together, and looked up in his face. He 
answered the look. ‘ Yes, n y dear, the struggle is over.’ 


128 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Ethel came near, and put her arm round Meta’s waist, as if tc 
strengthen her, as she stood quite passive, and still. 

Dr. May seemed to think it best that all should be told ; but, 
though intently watching Meta, he directed his words to his own 
daughter. ‘ Thank Heaven, it has been shorter, and less painful, 
than I had dared to hope.’ 

Meta tried to speak, but could not bring out the words, and, 
with an imploring look at Ethel, as if to beg her to make them 
clear for her, she inarticulately murmured, ‘ Oh ! why did not you 
call me ! ’ 

‘ I could not. He would not let me. His last conscious word 
to me was not to let you see him suffer.’ 

Meta wrung her clasped hands together in mute anguish. Dr. 
May signed to Ethel to guide her back to the sofa, but the move- 
ment seemed so far to rouse her, that she said, ‘ I should like to go 
to bed.’ 

‘Right — the best thing,’ said Dr. May; and he whispered to 
Ethel, ‘ go with her, but don’t try to rouse her — don’t talk to her 
Come back to me, presently.’ 

He did not even shake hands with Meta, nor wish her good- 
night, as she disappeared into her own room. 

Bellairs undressed her, and Ethel stood watching, till the young 
head, under the load of sorrow, so new to it, was laid on the pillow. 
Bellairs asked her if she would have a light. 

‘No, no, thank you — the dark and alone. Grood-night,’ said 
Meta. 

Ethel went back to the sitting-room, where her father was stand- 
ing at the window, looking out into the night. He turned as she 
came in, folded her in his arms, and kissed her forehead. ‘ And 
how is the poor little dear ? ’ he asked. 

‘ The same,’ said Ethel. ‘ I can’t bear to leave her alone, and 
to have said nothing to comfort her.’ 

‘ It is too soon as yet,’ said Dr. May — ‘ her mind has not taken it 
in. I hope she will sleep all night, and have more strength to look 
at it when she wakens.’ 

‘ She was utterly unprepared.’ 

‘ I could not make her understand me,’ said Dr. May. 

‘And, oh, papa, what a pity she was not there ! ’ 

‘ It was no sight for her, till the last few minutes ; and hia 
whole mind seemed bent on sparing her. What tenderness it has 
been.’ 

‘ Must we leave her to herself all night ? ’ 

‘ Better so,’ said Dr. May. ‘ She has been used to loneliness , 
And to thrust companionship on her would.be only harassing.’ . 

Ethel, -who scarcely knew what it was to be alone, looked as if 
she did not understand. 

‘I used to try to force consolation on people,’ said Dr. May 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


129 


‘ but I know, now, that it can only be done by following their 
bent.’ 

‘ You have seen so many sorrows,’ said Ethel. 

‘ I never understood till I felt,’ said Dr. May. c Those few first 
days were a lesson.’ 

‘ I did not think you knew what was passing,’ said Ethel. 

1 1 doubt whether any part of my life is more distinctly before 
me than those two days,’ said Dr. May. 1 Flora coming in and out, 
and poor Alan sitting by me ; but I don’t believe I had any will. 
I could no more have moved my mind than my broken arm ; and I 
verily think, Ethel, that, but for that merciful torpor, I should have 
been frantic. It taught me never to disturb grief.’ 

£ And what shall we do ? ’ 

‘ You must stay with her till Flora comes. I will be here as 
much as I can. She is our charge till they come home. I told 
him between the spasms, that I had sent for you, and he seemed 
pleased.’ 

‘ If only I were anybody else ! ’ 

Dr. May again threw liis arm round her, and looked into her 
face. He felt that he had rather have her, such as she was, than 
anybody else ; and, together, they sat down and talked of what was 
to be done, and what was best for Meta, and of the solemnity of 
being in the house of death. Ethel felt and shewed it so much, in 
her subdued, awe-struck manner, that her father felt checked when- 
ever he was about to return to his ordinary manner, familiarized, 
as he necessarily was, with the like scenes. It drew him back to 
the thought of their own trouble, and their conversation recurred to 
those days, so that each gained a more full understanding of the 
other, and they at length separated, certainly with the more peace- 
ful and soft feelings for being in the abode of mourning. 

Bellairs promised to call Ethel, to be with her young lady as 
early as might be, reporting that she was sound asleep. And sleep 
continued to shield her till past her usual hour, so that Ethel was up, 
and had been with Dr. May, before she was summoned to her, and 
then she found her half-dressed, and hastening that she might not 
make Dr. May late for breakfast, and in going to his patients. 
There was an elasticity in the happily constituted young mind that 
could not be entirely struck down, nor deprived of power of taking 
thought for others. Yet her eyes looked wandering, and unlike 
themselves, and her words, now and then, faltered, as if she was not 
sure what she was doing or saying. Ethel told her not to mind — • 
Dr. Spencer would take care of the patients ; but she did not seem 
to recollect, at first, who Dr. Spencer was, nor to care for being re- 
minded. 

Breakfast was laid out in the little sitting-room. Ethel wanted 
to take the trouble off her hands, but she would not let her. She 
sat behind her urn, and asked about tea or coffee, quite accurately, 


130 


Tllfii DAISY CHAIN. 


in a low, subdued voice, that nearly overcame Dr. May. When the 
meal was over, and she had rung the bell, and risen up, as if to her 
daily work, she turned round, with that piteous, perplexed air, and 
stood for a moment, as if confused. 

I Cannot we help you ? ’ said Ethel. 

I I don’t know. Thank you. But, Dr. May, I must not keep 
you from other people — ’ 

‘I have no one to go to this morning,’ said Dr. May. ‘I am 
ready to stay with you, my dear.’ 

Meta came closer to him, and murmured, ‘ Thank you ! ’ 

The breakfast things had, by this time, been taken away, and 
Meta looking to see that the door had shut for the last time, said, 
in a low voice, 1 Now tell me — ’ 

Dr. May drew her down, to sit on the sofa beside him, and, in 
his soft, sweet voice, told her all that she wished to learn of her 
father’s last hours, and was glad to see showers of quiet, wholesome 
tears drop freely down, but without violence, and she scarcely 
attempted to speak. There was a pause at the end, and then she 
said, gently, 1 Thank you, for it all. Dear papa ! ’ And she rose 
up, and went back to her room. 

1 She has learnt to dwell apart,’ said Dr. May, much moved. 

‘ How beautifully she bears up ! ’ said Ethel. 

‘ It has been a life which, as she has used it, has taught her 
strength and self-dependance in the midst of prosperity.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Ethel, 1 she has trained herself by her dread of self- 
indulgence, and seeking after work. But oh ! what a break up it 
is for her ! I cannot think how she holds up. Shall I go to her ? ’ 

‘ I think not. She knows the way to the only Comforter. I am 
not afraid of her after those blessed tears.’ 

Dr. May was right ; Meta presently returned to them, in the same 
gentle subdued sadness, enfolding her, indeed, as a flower weighed 
down by mist, but not crushing nor taking away her powers. It 
was as if she were truly upheld ; and thankful to her friends as 
she was, she did not throw herself on them in utter dependance or 
self-abandonment. 

She wrote needful letters, shedding many tears over them, and 
often obliged to leave off to give the blinding weeping its course, 
but refusing to impose any unnecessary task upon Dr. May’s lame 
arm. All that was right, she strove to do; she saw Mr. Charles 
Wilmot, and was refreshed by his reading to her, and when Dr. May 
desired it, she submissively put on her bonnet, and took several 
turns with Ethel in the shrubbery, though it made her cry heartily 
to look into the down-stairs rooms. And she lay on the sofa at last, 
owning herself strangely tired, she did not know why, and glad that 
Ethel should read to her. By-and-by, she went to dress for the 
evening, and lame back, full of the tidings that one of the children 
in the village had been badly burnt. It occupied her very much — 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 131 

she made Ethel promise to go and see about her to-morrow, and 
sent Bellairs at once with every comfort that she could devise. 

On the whole, those two days were to Ethel a peaceful and com* 
fortable time. She saw more than usual of her father, and had such 
conversations with him as were seldom practicable at home, and that 
chimed in with the unavowed care which hung on their minds ; 
while Meta was a most sweet and loving charge, without being a 
burthen, and often saying such beautiful things in her affectionate 
resignation, that Ethel could only admire and lay them up in her 
mind. Dr. May went backwards and forwards, and brought good 
accounts of Margaret and fond messages ; he slept at the Grange 
each night, and Meta used to sit in her corner of the sofa and work, 
or not, as best suited her, while she listened to his talk with Ethel, 
and now and then herself joined. 

George Rivers’s absence was a serious inconvenience in all 
arrangements; but his sister dreaded his grief as much as she 
wished for his return ; and often were the posts and the journeys 
reckoned over, without a satisfactory conclusion, as to when he 
could arrive from so remote a part of Scotland. 

At last, as the two girls had finished their early dinner, the 
butler brought in word that Mr. Norman May was there. Meta 
at once begged that he would come in, and Ethel went into the 
hall to meet him. He looked very wan, with the dark rings round 
his eyes, a deeper purple than ever, and he could hardly find utter- 
ance to ask 1 how is she ? ’ 

‘ As good and sweet as she can be,’ said Ethel, warmly ; but no 
more, for Meta herself had come to the dining-room door, and was 
holding out her hand. Norman took it in both his, but could not 
speak ; Meta’s own soft voice was the first. ‘ I thought you would 
come — he was so fond of you.’ 

Poor Norman quite gave way, and Meta was the one to speak 
gentle words of soothing. ‘ There is so much. to be thankful for,’ 
she said. £ He has been spared so much of the suffering Dr. May 
feared for him; and he was so happy about George.’ 

Norman made a great effort to recover himself. Ethel asked 
for Flora and George. It appeared that they had been on an 
excursion when the first letter arrived at Glenbracken, and thus had 
received both together in the evening, on their return. George 
had been greatly overcome, and they had wished to set off instantly , 
but Lady Glenbracken would not hear of Flora’s travelling night 
and day, and it had at length been arranged that Norman Ogilvie 
should drive Norman across the country that evening, to catch the 
mail for Edinburgh, and he had been on the road ever since. George 
was following with his wife more slowly, and would be at home 
to-morrow evening. Meantime, he sent full authority to his father- 
in-law to make arrangements. 

Ethd went to see the burnt child, leaving Meta to take hei 


132 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


walk in the garden under Norman’s charge. He waited on hei 
with a sort of distant reverence for a form of grief, so unlike what 
he had dreaded for her, when the first shock of the tidings had 
brought back to him the shattered bewildered feelings to which he 
dared not recur. 

To dwell on the details, was, to her, a comfort, knowing his 
sympathy and the affection there had been between him and her 
father ; nor had they parted in such absolute brightness, as to make 
them unprepared for such a meeting as the present. The cloud of 
suspense was brooding lower and lower over the May family, and 
the need of faith and submission was as great with them as with 
the young orphan herself. Norman said little, but that little was 
so deep and fervent, that after a time, Meta could not help saying, 
when Ethel was seen in the distance, and their talk was nearly 
over — 1 Oh ! Norman, these things are no mirage.’ 

‘ It is the world that is the mirage,’ he answered. 

Ethel came up, and Dr. May also, in good time for the post. 
He was obliged to become very busy, using Norman for his secre- 
tary, till he saw his son’s eyes so heavy, that he remembered the 
two nights that he had been up, and ordered him to go home, and 
go to bed as soon as tea was over. 

‘ May I come back to-morrow ? ’ 

‘ Why — yes — I think you may. No, no,’ he added, recollecting 
himself,’ I think you had better not,’ and he did not relent, though 
Norman looked disappointed. 

Meta had already expressed her belief that her father would be- 
buried at the suburban Church, where lay her mother ; and Dr. 
May having been desired to seek out the will and open it, found it 
was so ; and fixed the day and hour with Meta, who was as sub- 
missive and reasonable as possible, though much grieved that ho 
thought she could not be present. 

Ethel, after going with Meta to her room at night, returned as 
usual to talk matters over with him, and again say how good Meta 
was. 

1 And I think Norman’s coming did her a great deal of good ’ 
said Ethel. 

1 Ha ? yes,’ said the Doctor, thoughtfully. 

‘ She thinks so much of Mr. Rivers’ having been fond of him.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said the Doctor, 1 he was. I find, in glancing over the 
will, which was newly made on Flora’s marriage, that he lias 
remembered Norman — left him £100 and his portfolio of prints 
from Raffaelle.’ 

‘ Has he, indeed ? how very kind — how much Norman will 
value it.’ 

‘ It is remarkable,’ said Dr. May, and then, as if he could not 
help it, told Ethel what Mr. Rivers had said of his wishes with 
egard to his daughter. Ethel blushed and smiled, and looked so 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 133 

much touched and delighted, that he grew alarmed anl said, ‘ You 
know, Ethel, this must he as if it never had been mentioned.’ 

‘ What! you will not tell Norman ? ’ 

1 No, certainly not, unless I see strong cause. They are very 
fond of each other, certainly, but they don’t know, and I dont know, 
whether it is not like brother and sister. I would not have either 
of them guess at this, or feel bound in any way. Why, Ethel ! she 
has thirty thousand pounds, and I dont know how much more.’ 

1 Thirty thousand ! ’ said Ethel, her tone, one of astonishment, 
while his had been almost of objection. 

1 It would open a great prospect,’ continued Pr. May, com- 
placently, 1 with Norman’s talents, and such a lift as that, he might 
be one of the first men in England, provided he had nerve and 
hardness enough, which I doubt.’ 

‘ He would not care for it,’ said Ethel. 

{ No ; but the field of usefulness — but what an old fool I am, 
after all my resolutions not to be ambitious for that boy ; to be set 
a going by such a thing as this ! Still Norman is something out of 
the common way. I wonder what Spencer thinks of him.’ 

1 And you never mean them to hear of it ? ’ 

‘•If they settle it for themselves,’ said Pr. May, 1 that sanction 
will come in to give double value to mine — or if I should see poor 
Norman hesitating as to the inequality, I might smooth the way ; 
but you see, Ethel, this puts us in a most delicate situation towards 
this pretty little creature. What her father wanted, was only to 
guard her from fortune-hunters, and if she should marry suitably 
elsewhere, — why — we will be contented.’ 

* I dont think I should be,’ said Ethel. 

1 She is the most winning of humming birds, and what we seo 
of her now, gives one double confidence in her. She is so far from 
the petted helpless girl, that he, poor man, would fain have made 
her ! And she has a bright, brave temper and elastic spirits, that 
would be the very thing for him, poor boy, with that morbid 
sensitiveness — he would not hurt her, and she would brighten him. 
It would be a very pretty thing — but we must never think about it 
again.’ 

‘ If we can help it,’ said Ethel. 

‘ Ah ! I am sorry I have put it into your head too. W e shall 
not so easily be unconscious now, when they talk about each other 
in the innocent way they do. We have had a lesson against being 
pleased at match-making ! But,’ turning away from the subject, 
‘ you shall not lose your Cocksmoor income, Ethel — ’ 

1 I had never thought of that. You had taken no fees here since 
We have been all one family.’ 

4 Well, he has been good enough to leave me £500, and Cocks 
moor can have the interest, if you like.’ 

1 Oh thank you, papa.’ 


134 : 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ It is only its due, for I suppose that is for attendance. Per- • 
sonally, to myself, he has left that beautiful Claude which he knew 
I admired so much. He has been very kind ! But after all, we 
ought not to be talking of all this — I should not have known it, 
if I had not been forced to read the will. Well, so we are in Flora’s 
house, Ethel ! I wonder how poor dear little Meta will feel the be- 
ing a guest here, instead of the mistress. I wish that boy were three 
or four years older ! I should like to take her straight home with 
us — I should like to have her for a daughter. I shall always look 
on her as one.’ 

‘ As a Daisy ! ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Don’t talk of it ! ’ said Dr. May, hastily ; ‘ this is no time for 
such things. After all, I am glad that the funeral is not here — 
Flora and Meta might be rather overwhelmed with these three in- 
congruous sets of relations. By their letters, those Diverges must 
be quite as queer a lot as George’s relations. After all, if we have 
nothing else, Ethel, we have the best of it, in regard to such rela- 
tions as we have.’ 

‘ There is Lord Cosham,’ said Ethel. 

‘Yes, he is Meta’s guardian, as well as her brother; but lie 
could not have her to live with him. She must depend upon Flora. 
But we shall see — 

Ethel felt confident that Flora would be very kind to her little 
sister-in-law, and yet one of those gleams of doubt crossed her, 
whether Flora would not be somewhat jealous of her own authority. 

Late the next evening, the carriage drove to the door, and 
George and Flora appeared in the hall. Their sisters went out to 
meet them, and George folded Meta in his arms, and kissing her 
again and again, called her his poor dear little sister, and wept bit- 
terly, and even violently. Flora stood beside Ethel, and said, in a 
low voice, that poor George felt it dreadfully, and then came for- 
ward, touched him gently, and told him that he must not overset 
Meta ; and, drawing her from him, kissed her, and said what a 
grievous time this had been for her, and how sorry they had been to 
leave her so long, but they knew she was in the best hands. 

‘ Yes, I should have been so sorry you had been over-tired. I 
was quite well off,’ said Meta. 

‘ And you must look on us as your home,’ added Flora. 

How can she ? thought Ethel. This is taking possession, and 
making Meta a guest already ! 

However, Meta did not seem so to feel it — she replied by ca- 
resses, and turned again to her brother. Poor George was by far 
the most struck down of all the mourners, and his whole demeanour 
gave his new relations a much warmer feeling towards him than they 
could ever have hoped to entertain. His gentle refined father had 
softly impressed his duller nature ; and his want of attention, and 
many extravagances came back upon him acutely now, in hia 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


135 


changed home. He could hardly bear to look at hi* little orphan 
sister, and lavished every mark of fondness upon her ; nor could he 
endure to sit at the bottom of his table ; but when they had gone 
into dinner, he turned away from the chair and hid his face. He 
was almost like a child in his want of self-restraint; and with all 
Dr. May’s kind soothing manner, he could not bring him to attend 
to any of the necessary questions as to arrangements, and was 
obliged to refer to Flora, whose composed good sense was never at 
fault. 

Ethel was surprised to find that it would be a great distress to 
Meta to part with her until the funeral was over, though she would 
hardly express a wish, lest Ethel should be needed at home. As 
soon as Flora perceived this, she begged her sister to stay, and again 
Ethel felt unpleasantly that Meta might have seen, if she had chosen, 
that Flora took the invitation upon herself. 

So, while Dr. May, with George, Norman, and Tom, wont to Lon- 
don, she remained, though not exactly knowing what good she was 
doing, unless by making the numbers rather less scanty ; but both 
sisters declared her to be the greatest comfort possible ; and when 
Meta shut herself up in her own room, where she had long learnt to 
seek strength in still communing with her own heart, Flora seemed 
to find it a relief to call her sister to hers, and talk over ordinary 
subjects, in a tone that struck on Ethel’s ear as a little incongruous 
— but then Flora had not been here from the first, and the impres- 
sion could not be as strong. She was very kind, and her manner, 
when with others, was perfect, from its complete absence of affecta- 
tion ; but, alone with Ethel, there was a little complacency some- 
times betrayed, and some curiosity whether her father had read the 
will. Ethel allowed what she had heard of the contents to be ex- 
tracted from her, and it certainly did not diminish Flora’s secret 
• satisfaction in being “ somebody.” 

She told the whole history of her visits ; first, how cordial Lady 
Leonora Langdale had been, and then, how happy she had been at 
Glenbracken. The old Lord and Lady, and Marjorie, all equally 
charming in their various ways ; and Norman Ogilvie so good a son, 
and so highly thought of in his own country. 

‘ Did I tell you, Ethel, that he desired to be remembered to 
you? ’ 

‘ Yes, you said so.’ 

4 What has Coralie done with it ? ’ continued Flora, seeking in 
her dressing-case. ‘ She must have put it away with my brooches. 
Oh no, here it is. I had been looking for Cairn-gorm specimens 
in a shop, saying I wanted a brooch that you would wear, when 
Norman Ogilvie came riding after the carriage, looking quite hot 
and eager ! He had been to some other place, and hunted this one 
up. Is it not a beauty ? ’ 

It was one of the round Bruce brooches, of dark pebble, with a 


136 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


silver fern-leaf lying across it, tlie dots of small Cairn-gonn stones, 

‘ The (xlenbracken badge, you know,’ continued Flora. 

Ethel twisted it about in her tinges, and said, ‘ Was not it meant 
for you ? ’ 

‘ It was to oblige me, if you choose so to regard it,’ said Flora,, 
smiling. 1 He gave me no injunctions ; but you see, you must wear 
it now. I shall not wear coloured brooches for a year.’ 

Ethel sighed. She felt as if her black dress ought, perhaps, to 
be worn for a nearer cause. She had a great desire to keep that 
Glenbracken brooch ; and surely it could not be wrong. To refuse 
it would be much worse, and would only lead to Flora’s keeping it, 
and not caring for it. 

£ Then it is your present, Flora ? ’ 

‘ If you like better to call it so, my dear. I find Norman Ogilvie 
is going abroad in a few months. I think we ought to ask him hero 
on his way.’ 

‘ Flora ! I wish you would not talk about such things ! ’ 

‘ Do you really and truly, Ethel ? ’ 

1 Certainly not, at such a time as this,’ said Ethel. 

Flora was checked a little, and sat down to write to Marjorie 
Ogilvie. ‘ Shall I say you like the brooch, Ethel ? ’ she asked, 
presently. 

‘ Say what is proper,’ said Ethel, impatiently. ‘ You know what 
I mean, in the fullest sense of the word.’ 

‘ Do I ? ’ said Flora. 

‘ I mean,’ said Ethel, ‘ that you may say, simply and rationally, 
that I like the thing, but I won't have it said as a message, or that 
I take it as his present.’ 

‘ Very well,’ said Flora, 1 the whole affair is simple enough, if 
you would not be so conscious, my dear.’ 

‘ Flora ! I can’t stand your calling me my dear ! ’ 

‘ I am very much obliged to you,’ said Flora, laughing, more than 
she would have liked to be seen, but recalled by her sister’s look. 
Ethel was sorry at once. £ Flora, I beg your pardon, I did not 
mean to be cross, only please don’t begin about that — Indeed, I 
think you had better leave out about the brooch altogether. No 
one will wonder at your passing it over in such a return as this.’ 

1 You are right,’ said Flora, thoughtfully. 

Ethel carried the brooch to her own room, and tried to keep 
herself from speculating what had been Mr. Ogilvie’s views in pro- 
curing it, and whether he remembered showing her, at Woodstock, 
what sort of fern was his badge, and how she had abstained from 
preserving the piece shut up in her guide-book. 

Meta’s patient sorrow was the best remedy for proneness to such 
musings. How happy poor little Meta had been ! The three sisters 
sat together that long day, and Ethel read to the others, and by- 
and-by went to walk in the garden with them, till, as Flora was 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


137 


going in, Meta asked, 4 Do you think it would be wrong for me to 
cross the park to see that little burnt girl, as Mr. Wilmot is a^ay 
to-day, and she has no one to go to her.’ 

Flora could see no reason against it, and Meta and Ethel left 
the garden, and traversed the green park, in its quiet home beauty, 
not talking much, except that Meta said, 4 Well ! I think there is 
quite as much sweetness, as sadness, in this evening.’ 

4 Because of this calm autumn sunset beauty ? ’ said Ethel. 4 Look 
at the golden light coming in under the branches of the trees.’ 

4 Yes,’ said Meta, 4 one cannot help thinking how much more 
beautiful it must be — ’ 

The two girls said no more, and came to the cottage where so 
much gratitude was expressed at seeing Miss Rivers, that it was 
almost too much for her. She left Ethel to talk, and only said a 
few soft little words to her sick scholar, who seemed to want her 
voice and smile to convince her that the small mournful face under 
all that black crape, belonged to her own dear bright teacher. 

4 It is odd,’ said Meta, as they went back ; 4 it is seeing other 
people that makes one know it is all sad and altered — it seems so 
bewildering, though* they are so kind.’ 

4 1 know what you mean,’ said Ethel. 

4 One ought not to wish it to go on, because there are other 
people and other duties,’ said Meta, 4 but quietness is so peaceful. 
l)o you know, Ethel, I shall always think of those two first days, 
before anybody came, with you and Dr. May, as something very — 
very — precious,’ she said, at last, with the tears rising. 

, 4 1 am sure I shall,’ said Ethel. 

4 1 don’t know how it is, but there is something even in this 
affliction that makes it like — a strange sort of happiness,’ said Meta, 
musingly. 

4 1 know what it is ! ’ said Ethel. 

4 That He is so very good ? ’ said Meta, reverently. 

4 Yes,’ said Ethel, almost rebuked for the first thought, namely, 
that it was because Meta was so very good. 

4 It does make one feel more confidence,’ said Meta. 

4 44 -It is good for me to have been in trouble,” ’ repeated Ethel. 

4 Yes,’ said Meta. 4 I hope it is not wrong or unkind in me to 
feel it, for I think dear papa would wish it ; but I do not feel as if 
— miss him always as I shall — the spring of life were gone from me. 
I don’t think it can, for I know no more pain or trouble can reach 
him, and there is— "don’t you think, Ethel, that I may think so ? — 
especial care for the orphan, like a compensation. And there is 
hope, and work here. And I am very thankful ! IIow much worse 
it would have been, if George had not been married ! Dear Flora ! 
Will you tell her, Ethel, how really I do wish her to take the com- 
mand of me. Tell her it will be the greatest kindness in the world 
to make me useful to her.’ 


138 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 1 will,’ said Ethel. 

I And please tell her that I am afraid I may forget, and take 
upon me, as if I were still lady of the house. Tell her I do not 
mean it, and I hope that she will check it. 5 

I I think there is no fear of her forgetting that, 5 said Ethel, 
regretting the words before they were out of her mouth. 

‘ I hope I shall not, 5 said Meta. ‘ If I do, I shall drive myself 
away to stay with Aunt Leonora, and I don’t want to do that at all. 
So please to make Flora understand that she is head, and I am 
ready to be hand and foot ; 5 and Meta’s bright smile shone out with 
the pleasure of a fresh and loving service. 

Ethel understood the force of her father’s words, that it was a 
brave, vigorous spirit. 

Dr. May came back with George, and staid to dinner, after 
which he talked over business with Flora, whose sagacity continually 
amazed him, and who undertook to make her husband understand, 
and do what was needed. 

Meta meanwhile cross-questioned her brother on the pretty 
village by the Thames, of which she had a fond, childish remem- 
brance, and heard from him of the numerous kind messages from 
all her relations. There were various invitations, but George re- 
peated them unwillingly. 

‘ You won’t go, Meta, 5 he said. ‘ It would be a horrid nuisanco 
to part with you.’ 

1 As long as you think so, dear George. — When I am in your 
way, or Flora’s — 5 

‘ That will never be ! I say, Flora, will she ever be in our way ? 5 

1 No, indeed ! Meta and I understand that, 5 said Flora, looking 
up. 1 Well, I suppose Bruce can’t be trusted to value the books 
and prints — 5 

Dr. May thought it a great relief that Meta had a home with 
Flora, for, as he said to Ethel, as they went home together, 1 Cer- 
tainly, except Lord Cosham, I never saw such an unpresentable 
crew as their relations. You should have heard the boys after- 
wards ! There was Master Tom turning up his Eton nose at them, 
and pronouncing that there never were such a set of snobs, and 
Norman taking him to task as I never heard him do before — telling 
him that he would never have urged his going to Eton, if he had 
thought it would make him despise respectable folks, probably, bet- 
ter than himself, and that this was the last time in the world for 
such observations — whereat poor Tommy was quite annihilated ; for 
a word from Norman goes further with him than a lecture from any 
one else. 5 

£ Well, I think Norman was right as to the unfitness of the time.' 

‘ So he was. But we had a good deal of them waiting in the inn 
parlour. People make incongruities when they will have such things 
done in state. It could not be helped here, to be sure • but I 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


139 


always feel, at a grand undertaker’s display like this, that, except 
the service itself, there is little to give peace or soothing. I hate 
what makes a talk ! Better he little folk.’ 

1 One would rather think of our own dear cloister, and those whc 
cared so much,’ said Ethel. 

1 Ah ! you were happy to he there ! ’ said Dr. May. 1 But it all 
comes to the same — ’ Pausing, .he looked from the window — then 
signed to Ethel to do the same — Orion glittered in the darkness. 

1 One may sleep sound without the lullaby,’ said Dr. May, ‘ and 
the waves — ’ 

1 Oh ! don’t, papa. You don’t give up hope ! ’ 

‘ I believe we ought, Ethel. Don’t tell her, hut I went to the 
Admiralty to-day.’ 

‘ And what did you hear there ? ’ 

‘ Great cause for fear — hut they do not give up. My poor Mar- 
garet ! But those stars tell us they are in the same Hand.’ 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

Shall I sit alone in my chamber. 

And set the chairs by the wall, 

While you sit with lords and princes, 

Yet have not a thought at ail ? 

Shall I sit alone in my chamber, 

And duly the table lay. 

Whilst you stand up in the diet, 

And have not a word to say ? 

Old Danish Ballad. 

1 0 Norman, are you come already ? ’ exclaimed Margaret, as her 
brother opened the door, bringing in with him the crisp breath of 
December. 

‘ Yes, I came away directly after collections. How are you 
Margaret ? ’ 

‘ Pretty brave, thank you ; ’ but the brother and sister both read 
on each other’s features, that the additional three months of suspense 
had told. There were traces of toil and study on Norman’s brow, 
the sunken look about his eyes, and the dejected outline of his 
cheek, Margaret knew betokened discouragement ; and though her 
mild serenity was not changed, she was almost transparently thin 
and pale. They had long ago left off asking whether there were 
tidings, and seldom was the subject adverted to, though the whole 
family seemed to be living beneath a dark shadow. 

‘ How is Flora ? ’ he next asked. 

< Going on beautifully, except that papa thinks she does too much 
in every way. She declares that she shall bring the baby to show 
me in another week, but I don’t think it will be allowed.’ 

< And the little lady prospers? ’ 


14:0 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ Capitally, though I get rather contradictory reports of her. 
First, papa declared her something surpassing — exactly like Flora, 
and so I suppose she is ; hut Ethel and Meta will say nothing for 
her beauty, and Blanche calls her a fright. But papa is her de- 
voted admirer — he does so enjoy having a sort of property again in 
a baby ’ 

1 And George Rivers ? ’ said Norman, smiling. 

i Poor George ! he is very proud of her in his own way. He has 
just been here with a note from Flora, and actually talked ! Be- 
tween her and the election, he is wonderfully brilliant.’ 

‘ The election ? Has Mr. Esdaile resigned ? ’ 

‘ Have you not heard ? He intends- it, and George himself is 
going to stand. The only danger is, that Sir Henry Walkinghame 
should think of it.’ 

‘ Rivers in parliament ! Well, sound men are wanted.’ 

‘ Fancy Flora, our member’s wife. How well she will become 
her position.’ 

1 How soon is it likely to be ? ’ 

1 Quickly, I fancy. Dr. Spencer, who knows all kinds of news 
(Papa says he makes a scientific study of gossip, as a new branch 
of comparative anatomy), found out from the Clevelands, that Mr. 
Esdaile meant to retire, and happened to mention it the last time 
that Flora came to see me. It was like firing a train. You would 
have wondered to see how it excited her, who usually shows her 
feelings so little. She has been so much occupied with it, and so 
anxious that George should be ready to take the field at once, that 
papa was afraid of its hurting her, and Ethel comes home declaring 
that the election is more to her than her baby.’ 

‘ Ethel is apt to be a little hard on Flora. They are too unlike 
to understand each other.’ 

I Ethel is to be godmother though, and Flora means to ask Mr. 
Ogilvie to come and stand.’ 

I I think he will be gone abroad, or I should have asked him to 
fulfil his old promise of coming to us.’ 

‘ I believe he must be lodged here, if he should come. Flora 
arill have her house full, for Lady Leonora is coming. The baby 
is to be called after her.’ 

1 Indeed ! ’ exclaimed Norman. 

’ Yes, I thought it unnecessary, as she is not George’s aunt, but 
Flora is grateful to her for much kindness, and she is coming to 
see Meta. I am afraid papa is a little hurt, that any name but one 
should have been chosen.’ 

1 Has Meta been comfortable ? ’ 

‘ Dear little thing ! Everyone says how beautifully she has be- 
haved. She brought all her housekeeping books to Flora at once, 
and only begged to be made helpful in whatever way might be most 
convenient. She explained, what we never knew before, how she 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Ml 


had the young maids in to read with her, and asked leave to go on. 
Very few could have been set aside so simply and sweetly in their 
own house.’ 

‘ Flora was sensible of it, I hope.’ 

1 0 yes. She took the management of course, but Meta ia 
charmed with her having the girls in from the village, in turn, to 
helpJn the scullery. They have begun family prayers too, and 
George makes the stable men go to Church — a matter which had 
been past Meta, so you may guess, though she had been a wonder- 
ful little manager, and Flora owned herself quite astonished.’ 

‘ I wonder only at her being astonished.’ 

‘ Meta owned to Ethel that what had been worst of all to her 
was the heart sinking, at finding herself able to choose her occupa- 
tions, with no one to accommodate them to. But she would not 
give way — she set up more work for herself at the school, and has 
been talking of giving singing lessons at Cocksmoor ; and she forced 
herself to read, though it was an effort. She has been very happy 
lately in nursing Flora.’ 

‘ Is Ethel there ? ’ 

‘ No ; she is, as usual, at Cocksmoor. There are great councils 
about sending Cherry to be trained for her new school.’ 

‘ Would Flora be able to see me, if I were to ride over to the 
Grange ? ’ 

1 You may try ; and, if papa is not there, I dare say she will.’ 

‘ At least, I shall see Meta, and she may judge. I want to see 
Fivers too, so I will ask if the bay is to be had. Ah ! you have 
the Claude, I see.’ 

‘ Yes, it is too large for this room ; but papa put it here that I 
might enjoy it, and it is almost a companion. The sky improves- so 
in the sunset light.’ 

Norman was soon at Abbotstoke ; and, as he drew his rein, 
Meta’s bright face nodded to him from Flora’s sitting-room window; 
and, as he passed the conservatory, the little person met him, with 
a summons, at once, to his sister. 

He found Flora on the sofa, with a table beside her, covered 
with notes and papers. She was sitting up writing ; and, though 
somewhat pale, was very smiling and animated. 

‘ Norman, how kind to come to me the first thing ! ’ 

1 Margaret encouraged me to try whether you would be visible.’ 

* They want to make a regular prisoner of me,’ said Flora, 
laughing. 1 Papa is as bad as the old nurse ! But he has not been 
here to-day, so I have had my own way. Bid you meet George ? ’ 

‘ No ; but Margaret said he had been with her.’ 

‘ I wish he would come. We expect the second post to bring 
the news that Mr. Esdaile has accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. 
If he found it so, he meant to go and talk to Mr. Bramsliaw; for, 
though he is so dull, we must make him agent.’ 


142 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ Is there any danger of opposition ? 5 

* None at all, if we are soon enough in the field. Papa’s nam# 
will secure us, and there is no one else on the right side to come for- 
ward, so that it is an absolute rescue of the seat. 5 

‘It is the very moment when men of principle are most wanted, 
said Norman. 1 The questions of the day are no light matters ; and 
it is an immense point to save Stoneborough from being represented 
by one of the Tomkins’ set.’ 

‘ Exactly so,’ said Flora. ‘ I should feel it a crime to say one 
word to deter George, at a time when every effort must be made to 
support the right cause. One must make sacrifices when the high- 
est interests are at stake.’ 

Flora seemed to thrive upon her sacrifice — she had never appeared 
more brilliant and joyous. Her brother saw, in her, a Koman 
matron ; and the ambition that was inherent in his nature, began 
to find compensation for being crushed, as far as regarded himself, 
by soaring for another. He eagerly answered that he fully agreed 
with her, and that she would never repent urging her husband to 
take on himself the duties incumbent on all who had the power. 

Highly gratified, she asked him to look at a copy of George’s 
intended address, which was lying on the table. He approved of 
the tenor, but saw a few phrases susceptible of a better point. 

‘ Give it,’ she said, putting a pen into his hand ; and he began to 
interline and erase her fair manuscript, talking earnestly, and work- 
ing up himself and the address at the same time, till it had grown 
into a composition far superior to the merely sensible affair it had 
been. Eloquence and thought were now in the language, and sub- 
stance — and Flora was delighted. 

1 1 have been very disrespectful to my niece all this time, 5 said 
Norman, descending from the clouds of patriotism. 

1 1 do not mean to inflict her mercilessly on her relations,’ said 
Flora, ‘ but I should like you to see her. She is so like Blanche.’ 

The little girl was brought in, and Flora made a very pretty 
young mother, as she held her in her arms, with so much graceful 
pride. Norman was perfectly entranced — he had never seen his 
sister so charming or so admirable, between her delight in her in- 
fant, and her self-devotion to the good of her husband and her 
country — acting so wisely, and speaking so considerately; and 
praising her dear Meta with so much warmth. He would never 
have torn himself away, had not the nurse hinted that Mrs. Itivers 
had had too much excitement and fatigue already to-day ; and, be- 
sides, he suspected that he might find Meta in the drawing-room, 
where he might discuss the whole with her, and judge for himself 
of her state of spirits. 

Flora’s next visitor was her father, who came as the twilight was 
enhancing the comfortable red brightness of the fire. He was very 
happy in these visits — mother and child had both prospered so well, 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


143 


and it was quite a treat to be able to expend bis tenderness on Flora. 
His little grandchild seemed to renew his own happy days, and he 
delighted to take her from her mother, and fondle her. No sooner 
was the baby in his arms, than Flora’s hands were busy among the 
papers, and she begged him to ring for lights. 

1 Not yet,’ he said. 1 Why can’t you sit in the dark, and give 
yourself a little rest ? ’ 

‘ I want you to hear G-eorge’s address. Norman has been looking 
at it, and I hope you will not think it too strong,’ and she turned, 
so that the light might fall on the paper. 

‘ Let me see,’ said Dr. May, holding out his hand for it. 

1 This is a rough copy, too much scratched/or you to make out.’ 

She read it accordingly, and her father admired it exceedingly — 
Norman’s touches, above all ; and Flora’.s reading had dovetailed all 
so neatly together that no one knew where the joins were. ‘ I will 
copy it fairly,’ she said, ‘ if you will show it to Dr. Spencer, and 
ask whether he thinks it too strong. Mr. Dodsley too ; he would 
be more gratified if he saw it first, in private, and thought himself 
consulted.’ 

Dr. May was dismayed at seeing her take up her pen, make a 
desk of her blotting-book, and begin her copy by firelight. 

1 Flora, my dear,’ he said, ‘ this must not be. Have I not told 
you that you must be content to rest ? ’ 

£ I did not get up till ten o’clock, and have been lying here ever 
since.’ 

1 But what has this head of yours been doing ? Has it been rest- 
ing for ten minutes together ? Now, I know what I am saying, 
Flora — I warn you, that if you will not give yourself needful quiet 
now, you will suffer for it by-and-by.’ 

Flora smiled, and said, 1 1 thought X had been very good. But, 
what is to be done when one’s wits will work, and there is work for 
them to do ? ’ 

‘ Is not there work enough for them here ? ’ said Dr. May, looking 
at the babe. ‘ Your mother used to value such a retirement from 
care.’ 

Flora was silent for a minute, then said, ‘ Mr. Esdaile should 
have put off his resignation to suit me. It is an unfortunate time 
for the election.’ 

1 And you can’t let the election alone ? ’ 

She shook her head, and smiled a negative, as if she would, but 
that she was under a necessity. 

1 My dear, if the election cannot go on without you, it had better 
not go on at all.’ 

She looked very much hurt, and turned away her head. 

Her father was grieved, ‘ My dear,’ he added, ‘ I know you 
desire to be of use, especially to George ; but do you not believe 
that he would rather fail, than that you, or his child, should suffer ? ’ 
20 


144 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


No answer. 

‘ Does he stand by his own wish, or yours, Flora ? ’ 

* He wishes it. It is his duty,’ said Flora, collecting her dignity 

1 1 can say no more, except to beg him not to let you exert 
yourself.’ • 

Accordingly, when George came home, the Doctor read him a 
lecture on his wife’s over-busy brain ; and was listened to, as usual, 
with gratitude and deference. He professed that he only wished to 
do what was best for her, but she never would spare herself; and, 
going to her side, with his heavy, fond solicitude, he made her 
promise not to hurt herself, and she laughed and consented. 

The promise was .easily given, for she did not believe she was 
hurting herself ; and, as to giving up the election, or ceasing secretly 
to prompt George, that was absolutely out of the question. What 
could be a greater duty than to incite her husband to usefulness ? ’ 

Moreover it was but proper to invite Meta’s aunt and cousin to 
see her, and to project a few select dinners for their amusement, 
and the gratification of her neighbours. It was only grateful and 
cousinly likewise, to ask the “ Master of Glenbracken ; ” and as she 
saw the thrill of colour on Ethel’s cheeks, at the sight of the 
address to the Honourable Norman Ogilvie, she thought herself the 
best of sisters. She even talked of Ogilvie as a second Christian 
name, but Meta observed that old aunt Dorothy -would call it 
Leonorar Rogilvie Rivers, and thus averted it, somewhat to Ethel’s 
satisfaction. 

Ethel scolded herself many times for wondering whether Mr. 
Ogilvie would come. What was it to her ? Suppose he should ; 
suppose the rest. What a predicament ! How unreasonable and 
conceited, even to think of such a thing, when her mind was made 
up. What could result, save tossings to and fro, a passing gratifi- 
cation set against infinite pain, and strife with her own heart, and 
with her father’s unselfishness. Had he but come before Flora’s 
marriage ! No ; Ethel hated herself for the wish that arose for the 
moment. Far better he should keep away, if, perhaps, without the 
slightest inclination towards her, his mere name could stir up such 
a tumult — all, it might be, founded in vanity. Rebellious feelings 
and sense of tedium had once been subdued — why should they be 
roused again ? 

The answer came. Norman Ogilvie was setting off for Italy, 
and regretted that he could not take Abbotstoke on his way. He 
desired his kind remembrances and warm Christmas wishes to all 
his cousins. 

If Ethel breathed more freely, there was a sense that tranquillity 
is uninteresting. It was, it must be confessed, a flat end to a 
romance, that all the permanent present effect was a certain 
eqftcning, and a degree more attention to her appearance ; and after 
all, this might, as Flora averred, be ascribed to the Paris outfit 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN". 


145 


having taught her to wear clothes ; as well as to that which had 
awakened the feminine element, and removed that sense of not being 
like other women, which sometimes hangs painfully about girls who 
have learnt to think themselves plain or awkward. 

There were other causes why it should be a dreary winter to 
Ethel, under the anxiety that strengthened by duration, and the 
strain of acting cheerfulness for Margaret’s sake. Even Mary was 
a care. Her round rosy childhood had worn into height and sallow- 
ness, and her languor and indifference fretted Miss Bracy, and was 
hunted down by Ethel, till Margaret convinced her that it was a 
case for patience and tenderness, which, thenceforth, she heartily 
gave, even encountering a scene with Miss Bracy, who was much 
injured by the suggestion that Mary was oppressed by perspective. 
Poor Mary, no one guessed the tears nightly shed over Harry’s 
photograph. 

Nor could Ethel quite fathom Norman. He wore the dispirited, 
burthened expression that she knew too well, but he would not, as 
formerly, seek relief in confidence to her, shunning the being alone 
with her, and far too much occupied to offer to walk io Cocksmcor. 
When the intelligence came that good old Mr. Wilmot of Settlesham 
had peacefully gone to his rest, after a short and painless illness, Tom 
was a good deal affected, in his peculiar silent and ungracious 
fashion ; but Norman did not seek to talk over the event, and the 
feelings he had entertained two years ago — he avoided the subject, 
and threw himself into the election matters with an excitement, 
foreign to his nature. 

He was almost always at Abbotstoke, or attending George River* 
at the committee room at the Swan, talking, writing, or consulting, 
concocting squibs, and perpetrating bon mots , that were the delight 
of friends and the confusion of foes. Flora was delighted, George 
adored him, Meta’s eyes danced whenever he came near, Dr. Spencer 
admired him, and Dr. Hoxton prophesied great things of him ; but 
Ethel did not feel as if he were the veritable Norman, and had an un- 
defined sensation of discomfort, when she heard his brilliant repartees, 
and the laughter with which he accompanied them, so unlike his 
natural rare and noiseless laugh. She knew it was false excitement, 
to drive away the suspense that none dared to avow, but which did 
not press on them the less heavily, for being endured in silence. 
Indeed, Dr. May could not help now and then giving way to out- 
bursts of despondency, of which his friend, Dr. Spencer, who made 
it his special charge to try to lighten his troubles, was usually the 
kind recipient. 

And though the bustle of the election was incongruous, and 
seemed to make the leaden weight the more heavy, there was a 
compensation in the tone of feeling that it elicited, which gave real 
and heartfelt pleasure. 

Dr. May had undergone numerous fluctuations of popularity. 


146 


THE DAISY CHAIN 


He had always been the same man, excellent in intention, though 
hasty in action, and heeding neither praise nor censure ; and while 
the main tenor of his course never varied, making many deviations 
by flying to the reverse of the wrong, most immediately before him ; 
still his personal character gained esteem every year ; and though 
sometimes his merits, and sometimes his failings, gave violent um- 
brage, he had steadily risen in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen, 
as much as his own inconsistencies and theirs would allow, and every 
now and then was the favourite with all, save with the few who abused 
him for tyranny, because he prevented them from tyrannizing. 

He was just now on the top of the wave, and his son-in-law had 
nothing to do but to float in on the tide of his favour. The oppo- 
site faction attempted a contest, but only rendered the triumph 
more complete, and. gave the gentlemen the pleasure of canvassing, 
and hearing, times without number, that the constituents only wished 
the candidate were Dr. May himself. His sons and daughters were 
full of exultation — Dr. Spencer, much struck, rallied “ Dick ” on his 
influence — and Dr. May, the drops of warm emotion trembling on 
his eye-lashes, smiled, and bade his friend see him making a 
Church-rate. 

The addresses and letters that came from the Grange were so 
admirable, that Dr. May often embraced Norman’s steady opinion, 
that George was a very wise man. If Norman was unconscious 
how much he contributed to these compositions, he knew far less 
how much was Flora’s. In his ardour, he crammed them both, 
and conducted George when Flora could not be at his side. George 
himself was a personable man, wrote a good bold hand, would do as 
he was desired, and was not easily put out of countenance ; he seldom 
committed himself by talking ; and when a speech was required, 
was brief, and to the purpose. He made a very good figure, and in 
the glory of victory, Ethel herself began to grow proud of him. 
and the children’s great object in life was to make the jackdaws cry, 
“ Rivers for ever ! ” 

Flora had always declared that she would be at Stoneborough for 
the nomination. No one believed her, until three days before, she 
presented herself and her daughter before the astonished Margaret, 
who was too much delighted to be able to scold. She had come 
away on her own responsibility, and was full of triumph. To come 
home in this manner, after having read “ Rivers for ever ! ” on all 
the dead walls, might be called that for which she had lived. She 
made no stay — she had only come to shew her child, and establish 
a precedent for driving out, and Margaret had begun to believe the 
apparition a dream, when the others came in, some from Cocksmoor, 
others from the Committee-room at the Swan. 

‘ So she brought the baby,’ exclaimed Ethel. ‘ I should have 
thought she would not have taken her out before her Christening.’ 

£ Ethel,’ said Dr. Spencer, ' permit me to make a suggestion. 


THE DAISY CHAIN, 147 

When relations live in the same neighbourhood, thero is uo phrase 
to be more avoided than “ I should have thought—” ’ 

The nomination-day brought Flora, Meta, baby and all to bo 
very quiet, as was said ; but how could that be ? when every boy 
in the house was frantic, and the men scarcely less so. Aubrey and 
Gertrude, and the two jackdaws, each had a huge blue and orange 
rosette, and the two former went about roaring ‘ Fivers for ever ! ’ 
without the least consideration for the baby, who would have been 
decked in the same manner, if Ethel would have heard of it, without 
indignation at her wearing any colour before her Christening white ; 
as to Jack and Jill, though they could say their lessons, they were 
too much distressed by their ornaments to do aught but lurk in cor 
ners, and strive to peck them off. 

Flora comported herself in her usual quiet way, and tried tc 
talk of other things, though a carnation spot in each cheek shewed 
her anxiety and excitement. She went with her sisters to look out 
from Dr. Spencer’s windows towards the Town Hall. Her husband 
gave her his arm as they went down the garden, and Ethel saw her 
talking earnestly to him, and pressing his arm with her other hand 
to enforce her words, but if she did tutor him, it was hardly visible, 
and he was very glad of whatever counsel she gave. 

She spoke not a word after the ladies were left with Aubrey, 
who was in despair at not being allowed to follow Hector and Tom, 
but was left, as his prematurely classical mind expressed it, like 
the Gaulish women with the impedimenta in the marshes — whereas 
Tom had added insult to injury, by a farewell to u Jack among the 
maidens.’ 

Meta tried to console him, by persuading him that he was their 
protector, and he began to think there was need of a guard, when a 
mighty cheer caused him to take refuge behind Ethel. Even when 
assured that it was anything but terrific, he gravely declared that 
he thought Margaret would want him, but — he could not cross the 
garden without Meta to protect him. 

She would not allow anyone else to relieve her from the doughty 
champion, and thereby she missed the spectacle. It might be that 
she did not regret it, for though it would have been unkind to 
refuse to come in with her brother and sister, her wound was still 
too fresh for crowds, turmoil, and noisy rejoicing to be congenial. 
She did not withdraw her hand, which Aubrey squeezed harder at 
each resounding shout, nor object to his conducting her to see 
his museum in the dark corner of the attics, most remote from the 
tumult. 

The loss was not great. The others could hear nothing distinct- 
ly, and see only a wilderness of heads ; but the triumph was com- 
plete. Dr. May had been cheered enough to satisfy even Hector; 
George Fivers had made a very fair speech, and hurrahs had cov- 
ered all deficiencies ; Hector had shouted till he was as hoarse as 


148 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


the jackdaws ; the opposite candidate had never come forward ai 
all ; Tomkins was hiding his diminished head ; and the gentlemen 
had nothing to report but success, and were in the highest spirits. 

By-and-by Blanche was missing, and Ethel, going inquest of 
her, spied a hem of blue merino peeping out under all the cloaks in 
the hall cupboard, and found the poor little girl sobbing in such 
distress, that it was long before any explanation could be extracted, 
but at last it was revealed — when the door had been shut, and they 
stood in the dark, half stifled among the cloaks, that George’s spirits 
had taken his old facetious style with Blanche, and in the very hear- 
ing of Hector ! The misery of such jokes to a sensitive child, 
conscious of not comprehending their scope, is incalculable, and 
Blanche having been a baby-coquette, was the more susceptible. She 
hid her face again from the very sound of her own confession, and 
resisted Ethel’s attempts to draw her out of the musty cupboard, 
declaring that she could never see either of them again. Ethel, in 
vain, assured her that George was gone to the dinner at the Swan ; 
nothing was effectual but being told that, for her to notice what 
had passed, was the sure way to call Hector’s attention thereto, 
when- she bridled, emerged, and begged to know whether she looked 
as if she had been crying. Poor child, she could never again be 
unconscious, but, at least, she was rendered peculiarly afraid of a 
style of notice, that might otherwise have been a temptation. 

Ethel privately begged Flora to hint to George to alter his style 
of wit, and the suggestion was received better than the blundering 
manner deserved ; Flora was too exulting to take offence, and her 
patronage of all the world was as full-blown as her lady-like nature 
allowed. Ethel, she did not attempt to patronize, but she promised 
all the sights in London to the children, and masters to Mary and 
Blanche, and she perfectly overwhelmed Miss Bracy with orphan 
asylums for her sisters. She would have liked nothing better than 
dispersing cards, with Mrs. Bivers prominent among the recommend- 
ers of the case. 

‘ A fine coming-out for jmu, little lady,’ said she to her baby, 
when taking leave that evening. ‘ If it was good luck for you to 
make your first step in life upwards, what is this ? ’ 

‘ Excelsior ? ’ said Ethel, and Flora smiled, well-pleased, but she 
had not caught half the meaning. ‘ May it be the right excelsior ,’ 
added Ethel, in a low voice, that no one heard, and she was glad 
they did not. They were all triumphant, and she could not tell 
why she had a sense of sadness, and thought of Flora’s story long 
ago, of the girl who ascended Mont Blanc, and for what ? 

All she had to do at present was to listen to Miss Bracy, who 
was sure that Mrs. Bivers thought Mary and Blanche were not 
improved, and was afraid she was ungrateful for all the intended 
kindness to her sister. 

Ethel had more sympathy here, for she had thought that Flora 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


149 


was giving lierself airs, and she laughed and said her sister was 
pleased to be in a position to help her friends ; and tried to turn it 
off, but ended by stumbling into allowing that prosperity was apt to 
' make people over lavish of offers of kindness. 

‘ Dear Miss Ethel, you understand so perfectly. There is no 
one like you ! ’ cried Miss Bracy, attempting to kiss her hand. 

If Ethel had not spoken rightly of her sister, she was sufficiently 
punished. 

What she did was to burst into a laugh, and exclaim, ‘ Miss 
Bracy !. Miss Bracy ! I can’t have you sentimental. I am the worst 
person in the world for it.’ 

1 1 have offended. You cannot feel with me ! ’ 

‘ Yes, I can, when it is sense ; but please don’t treat mo like a 
heroine. I am sure there is quite enough in the world that is 
worrying without picking shades of manner to pieces. It is the 
sure way to make an old crab of me, and so I am going off. Only, 
one parting piece of advice, Miss Bracy — read “ Frank Fairlegh,” 
and put everybody out of your head.’ 

And, thinking she had been savage about her hand, Ethel turned 
back, and kissed the little governess’s forehead, wished her good- 
night, and ran away. 

She had learnt that, to be rough and merry, was the best way 
of doing Miss Bracy good in the end ; and so she often gave her - 
self the present pain of knowing that she was being supposed care - 
less and hard-hearted ; but the violent affection for her proved tli at 
the feeling did not last. 

Ethel was glad to sit by the fire at bed-time, and think over the 
day, outwardly so gay, inwardly so fretting and perplexing. 

It was the first time that she had seen much of her little niece. 
She was no great baby-handler, nor had she any of the phrases 
adapted to the infant mind ; but that pretty little serene blue-eyed 
girl had been her chief thought all day, and she was abashed by 
recollecting how little she had dwelt on her own duties as her 
sponsor, in the agitations excited by the doubts about her coad- 
jutor. 

She took out her Prayer-book, and read the service for Baptism, 
recollecting the thoughts that had accompanied her youngest sister’s 
orphaned Christening, ‘ The vain pomp and glory of the world, and 
all covetous desires of the same.’ They seemed far enough off then, 
and now — poor little Leonora ! 

Ethel knew that she judged her sister hardly ; yet she could not 
help picturing to herself the future — a young lady trained for fash- 
ionable life, serious teaching not omitted, but right made the means 
of rising in the world ; taught to strive secretly, but not openly, for 
admiration — a scheming for her marriage — a career like Flora’s 
own. Ethel could scarcely feel that it would not be a mockery to 
declare, on her behalf, that she renounced the world. But, alas ! 


150 


THE DAISY CIIAII*. 


where was not the world ? Ethel blushed at having censured 
others, when, so lately, she had herself been oblivious of the higher 
duty. She thought of the prayer, including every Christian in holy 
and loving intercession — ‘ I pray not that Thou wouldst take 
them out of the world, but that Thou wouldst keep them from the 
evil. 5 

‘ Keep her from the evil — that shall be my prayer for my poor 
little Leonora. His Grace can save her, were the surrounding evil 
far worse than ever it is likely to be. The intermixture with good 
is the trial, and is it not so everywhere — ever since the world and 
the Church have seemed fused together ? But she will soon be the 
child of a Father who guards His own ; and, at least, I can pray for 
her, and her dear mother. May I only live better, that so I may 
pray better and act better, if ever I should have to act.’ 

There was a happy family gathering on the New Year’s Bay, and 
Flora, who had kindly felt her way with Meta, finding her not yet 
ready to enjoy a public festivity for the village, added a supplement 
to the Christmas beef ; that a second dinner might be eaten at home, 
in honour of Miss Leonora Bivers. 

Lady Leonora was highly satisfied with her visit, which im- 
pressed her far more in favour of the Abbotstoke neighbourhood 
than in the days of poor old Mr. Bivers. Flora knew everyone, 
and gave little select dinner parties, which, by her good manage- 
ment, even George, at the bottom of the table, could not make heavy. 
Br. Spencer enjoyed them greatly, and was an unfailing resource 
for conversation ; and as to the Hoxtons, Flora felt herself amply 
repaying the kindness she had received in her young lady days, when 
she walked down to the dining-room with the portly head master, 
or saw his good lady sit serenely admiring the handsome rooms. 
‘A very superior person, extremely pleasing and agreeable,’ was the 
universal verdict :>n Mrs. Bivers. Lady Leonora struck up a great 
friendship with her, and was delighted that she meant to take Meta 
to London. The only fault that could be found with her was that 
she had so many brothers ; and Flora, recollecting that her Lady- 
ship mistrusted those brothers, avoided encouraging their presence 
at the Grange, and took evsry precaution against any opening for 
the suspicion that she threw them in the way of her little sister-in- 
law. 

Nor had Flora forgotten the Ladies’ Committee, or Cocksmoor. 
As to the Muses, they gave no trouble at all. Exemplary civilities 
about the chair passed between the Member’s lady and Mrs. Lcd- 
wich, ending in Flora’s insisting that priority in office should pre- 
vail, feeling that she could well afford to yield the post of honour, 
since anywhere she was the leader. She did not know how much 
more conformable the ladies had been ever since they had known 
Br. Spencer’s opinion ; and yet he only believed that they were 
grateful for good advice, and went about among them, easy, good- 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


151 


matured, and utterly unconscious, that for him, sparkled Mrs. Led 
wicli’s bugles, and for him waved every spinster’s ribbon, from Miss 
Itich down to Miss Boulder. 

The point carried by their united influence was Charity El- 
wood’s being sent for six months’ finish at the Diocesan Training 
School ; while a favourite pupil teacher from Abbotstoke took her 
place at Cocksmoor. 

Dr. Spencer looked at the Training School, and talked Mrs. 
Ledwich into magnanimous forgiveness of Mrs. Elwood. Cherry 
dreadod the ordeal, but she was willing to do anything that was 
thought right, and likely to make her fitter for her office. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Twas a long doubt ; we -never beard 
Exactly ho%v the ship went down. 

AllCIIEE GuitiilT. 

Tiie tidings came at last, came when the heart-sickness of hope 
deferred had faded into the worse heart-sickness of fear deferred, 
and when spirits had been fain to rebel, and declare that they 
would be almost glad to part with the hope that but kept alive 
despair. 

The Christmas holidays had come to an end, and the home party 
w?ve again alone, when early in the forenoon, there was a tap at the 
drawing-room door, and Dr. Spencer called, ‘ Ethel, can you come 
-md speak to me ? ’ 

Margaret started as if those gentle tones had been a thunder- 
clap. ‘ Go ! go, Ethel,’ she said, ‘ don’t keep me waiting.’ 

‘ Dr. Spencer stood in the hall with a newspaper in his hand. 
Ethel said, 1 Is it ? ’ and he made a sorrowful gesture. 

4 Both ? ’ she asked. 

1 Both,’ he repeated * The ship burnt — the boat lost.’ 

1 Ethel, come ! ’ hoarsely called Margaret. 

‘ Take it,’ said Dr. Spencer, putting the paper into her hand ; 
1 1 will wait.’ 

She obeyed. She could not speak, but kneeling down by her 
sister, they read the paragraph together ; Ethel, with one eye on 
the words, the other on Margaret. 

No doubt was left. Captain Gordon had returned, and this was 
his official report. The names of the missing stood below, and the 
list began thus — 

Lieutenant A. H. Ernescliffe. 

Mr. Charles Owen, Mate. 

Mr. Harry May, Midshipman. 

The Alccstis had taken fire on the 12th of April of the former 


152 


THE DAISY CHAIN-. 


year. There had been much admirable conduct, .and the intrepid 
coolness of Mr. Ernescliffe was especially recorded. The boats 
had been put off without loss, but they were scantily provisioned, 
and the nearest land was far distant. For five days the boats 
kept together, then followed a night of storms, and, when morning 
dawned, the second cutter, under command of Mr. Ernescliffe, had 
disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had sunk, and the 
captain could only record his regrets for the loss the service had 
experienced in the three brave young officers and their gallant sea- 
men. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the other 
boats’ crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way 
home. 

‘ 0 Margaret, Margaret ! ’ cried Ethel. 

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her iace. ‘ I 
did not write the letter ! ’ she said. 

‘ What letter ? ’ said Ethel, alarmed. 

‘ Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us 
Now all is well.’ 

‘ All is well, I know, if we could but feel it.’ 

‘ He never had the pain. It is unbroken ! ’ continued Marga- 
ret, her eyes brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that 
terrified Ethel into calling Dr. Spencer. 

Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and di- 
lated eyes ; but, as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed up- 
stairs. 

Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to 
read his face as he saw Margaret — restored, as it seemed, to all her 
girlish bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far be- 
yond the present scene. Ethel had a moment’s sense that his ex- 
pression was as if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone 
in a moment, as he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke 
a word of greeting, as .though to recall her. 

‘ Thank you,’ she said, with her own grateful smile. 

1 Where is your father "? ’ he asked of Ethel. 

‘ Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden’s,’ said Ethel, with 
a ghastly suspicion, that he thought Margaret in a state to require 
him. 

‘ Papa ! ’ said Margaret. ‘ If he were but here ! But — ah ! I 
had forgotten.’ 

She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer 
signed Ethel nearer to him. ‘ This is a more natural state,’ he 
said. 1 Don’t be afraid for her. I will find your father, and bring 
him home.’ Pressing her hand he departed. 

Margaret was weeping tranquilly — Ethel knelt down beside her, 
without daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental 
prayers to Him, who alone could bear her or her dear father through 
their affliction. Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


153 


returned the caress, but began to blame herself for the momentary 
selfishness that had allowed her brother’s loss and her father’s grief 
to have been forgotten in her own. — Ethel’s “ oh ! no ! no ! ” did 
not console her for this which seemed the most present sorrow, but 
the flow of tears was so gentle, that Ethel trusted that they were a 
relief. Ethel herself seemed only able to watch her, and to fear for 
her father, not to be able to think for herself. 

The front door opened, and they heard Dr. May’s step hesitating 
in the hall, as if he could not bear to come in. 

‘ Go to him ! ’ cried Margaret, wiping off her tears. 

Ethel stood a moment in the door- way, then snrang to him, and 
was clasped in his arms. 

1 You know it ? ’ he whispered. 

‘ Dr. Spencer told us. Did not you meet him ? ’ 

‘ No. I read it at Bramshaw’s office. How — ’ He could not 
say the words, but he looked towards the room, and wrung the 
hand he held. 

‘ Quiet. Like herself. Come.’ 

He threw one arm round Ethel, and laid his hand on her head, 
How much there is to be thankful for ? ’ he said, then advancing, 
he hung over Margaret, calling her his own poor darling. 

1 Papa, you must forgive, me. You said, sending him to sea was 
giving him up.’ 

1 Did I. Well, Margaret, he did his duty. That is all we 
have to live for. Our yellow-haired laddie made a gallant sailor, 
and — ’ 

Tears choked his utterance — Margaret gently stroked his hand. 

1 It falls hard on you, my poor girl,’ he said. 

1 No, papa,’ said Margaret, 1 1 am content and thankful. He is 
spared pain and perplexity.’ 

‘ You are right, I believe,’ said Dr. May. ‘ He would have been 
grieved not to find you better.’ 

‘ I ought to grieve for my own selfishness,’ said Margaret. < I 
cannot help it ! I cannot be sorry the link is unbroken, and that 
he had not tfl turn to anyone else.’ 

I He never would ! ’ cried Dr. May, almost angrily. 

I I tried to think he ought,’ said Margaret. ‘ His life would 
have been too dreary. But it is best as it is.’ 

1 It must be,’ said the Doctor. ‘ Where are the rest, Ethel ? 
Cull them all down.’ 

Poor Mary, Ethel felt as if she had neglected her ! She found 
her hanging over the nursery fire, alterQating with old nurse in fond 
reminiscences of Harry’s old days, sometimes almost laughing at 
his pranks, then crying again, while Aubrey sat between them, 
drinking in each word. 

Blanche and Gertrude came from the school-room, where Miss 
Bracy seemed to have been occupying them, with much kindness 


154 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and judgment. She came to the door to ask Ethel anxiously foi 
the Doctor and Miss May, and looked so affectionate and sympa- 
thizing, that Ethel gave her a hearty kiss. 

‘ Dear Miss Ethel ! if you can only let me help you.’ 

‘ Thank you,’ said Ethel with all her heart, and hurried away. 

Nothing was more in favour of Miss Bracy, than that there 
should be a hurry. Then she could be warm, and not morbid. 

Dr. May gathered his children round him, and took out the 
great Prayer-book. He read a Psalm and a prayer from the 
Burial Service, and the sentence for funerals at sea. Then he 
touched each of their heads, and, in short broken sentences, gave 
thanks for those still left to him, and for the blessed hope they 
could feel for those who were gone ; and he prayed that they 
might so follow in their footsteps, as to come to the same Holy 
place, and in the meantime realize the communion of Saints. 
Then they said the Lord’s Prayer, he blessed them, and they 
arose. 

Mary, my dear,’ he said, ‘ you have a photograph.’ 

She put the case into his hands, and ran away. 

He went to the study, where lie found Dr. Spencer awaiting 
him. 

1 1 am only come to know where I shall go for you.’ 

‘ Thank you, Spencer. Thank you for taking care of my poor 
girls.’ 

‘ They took care of themselves. They have the secret of 
strength.’ 

‘ They have — ’ He turned aside, and burst out, ‘ Oh, Spencer ! 
you have been spared a great deal. If you missed a great deal of 
joy, you have missed almost as much sorrow ! ’ And, covering his 
face, he let his grief have a free course. 

‘ Dick ! dear old Dick, you must bear up. Think what treasures 
you have left.’ 

1 1 do. I try to do so,’, said poor Dr. May ; ‘ but, Spencer, you 
never saw my yellow-haired laddie, with his lion look ! He was 
the flower of them all ! Not one of these other boys came near 
him in manliness, and with such a loving heart ! An hour ago, I 
thought any certainty would be gain, but now I would give a life- 
time to have back the hope that I might see my boy’s face again ! 
0, Spencer ! this is the first time I could rejoice that his mother is 
not here ! ’ 

‘ She would have been your comforter,’ sighed his friend, as he 
felt his inability to contend with such grief. 

‘ There, I can be thankful,’ Dr. May said, and he looked so. 
‘ She has had her brave loving boy with her all this time, while we 
1 ittle thought — but there are others. My poor Margaret—’ 

1 Her patience must be blessed,’ said Dr Spencer. 1 1 think she 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 155 

will be better. Now that the suspense no longer preys on her 
there will be more rest.’ 

‘ Rest,’ repeated Dr. May, supporting his head on his hand ; 
and, looking up dreamily — ‘ there remaineth a rest — ’ 

The large Bible lay beside him, on the table, and Dr. Spencer 
thought that he would find more rest there than in his words 
Leaving him, therefore, his friend went to undertake his day’s work, 
and learn, once more, in the anxious inquiries, and saddened coun 
tenances of the patients and their friends, how great an amount of 
love and sympathy that Dr. May had won by his own warmth of 
heart. The patients seemed to forget their complaints in sighs for 
their kind Doctor’s troubles ; and the gouty Mayor of Stoneborough 
kept Dr. Spencer half-an-hour to listen to his recollections of the 
bright-faced boy’s droll tricks, and then to the praises of the whole 
May family, and especially of the mother. 

Poor Dr. Spencer ! he heard her accident described so many 
times in the course of the day, that his visits were one course of 
shrinking and suffering ; and his only satisfaction was in knowing 
how his friend would be cheered, by hearing of the universal feeling 
for him and his children. % 

Ethel wrote letters to her brothers ; and Dr. May added a few 
lines, begging Richard to come home, if only for a few days. 
Margaret would not be denied writing to Hector Ernesclifife, though 
she cried over her letter so much, that her father could almost have 
taken her pen away ; but she said it did her good. 

When Flora came in the afternoon, Ethel was able to leave 
Margaret to her, and attend to Mary, with whom Miss Bracy’s kind- 
ness had been inefficacious. If she was cheered for a few minutes, 
some association, either with the past, or the vanished future, soon 
set her off sobbing again. ‘ If I only knew where dear, dear Harry 
is lying,’ she sobbed, 1 and that it had not been very bad indeed, I 
could bear it better.’ 

The ghastly uncertainty was too terrible for Ethel to have borne 
to contemplate it. She knew that it would haunt their pillows, and 
she was trying to nerve herself by faith. 

I Mary,’ she said, ‘ that is the worst ; but, after all, God willed 
that we should not know. We must bear it like His good children. 
It makes no difference to them now — ’ 

I I know,’ said Mary, trying to check her sobs. 

* And, you know, we are all in the same keeping. The sea is a 
glorious great pure thing, you know, that man cannot hurt or de- 
file. It seems to me,’ said Ethel, looking up, 1 as if resting there 
was like being buried in our Baptism-tide over again, till the great 
new Birth. It must be the next best place to a Churchyard. 
Any where, they are as safe as among the daisies in our own 
Cloister. 


156 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 Say it again — wliat you said about the sea,’ said Mary, more 
comforted than if Ethel had been talking doivn to her. 

By-and-by, Ethel discovered that the sharpest trouble to the 
fond simple girl, was the deprivation of her precious photograph. It 
was like losing Harry over again, to go to bed without it, though 
she would not for the world seem to grudge it to her father. 

Ethel found an opportunity of telling him of this distress, and it 
almost made him smile. ‘ Poor Mary,’ he said, ‘ is she so fond of 
it ? It is rather a libel than a likeness.’ 

‘ Don’t say so to her, pray, papa. It is all the world to her. 
Three strokes on paper would have been the same, if they had been 
called by his name.’ 

‘ Yes ; a loving heart has eyes of its own, and she is a dear 
good girl ! ’ 

He did not forget to restore the treasure with gratitude propor- 
tionate to what the loan had cost Mary. With a trembling voice, 
she proffered it to him for the whole day, and every day, if she 
might only have it at night ; and she even looked blank when he 
did not accept the proposal. 

‘ It is exactly like — ’ said she. 

‘ It can’t help being so, in a certain sense,’ he answered kindly, 
‘ but after all, Mary dear, he did not pout out his chin in that way.’ 

Mary was somewhat mortified, but she valued her photograph 
more than ever, because no one else would admire it, except Daisy, 
whom she had taught to regard it with unrivalled veneration. 

A letter soon arrived from Captain Gordon, giving a fuller ac- 
count of the loss of his ship, and of the conduct of his Officers, 
speaking in the highest terms of Alan Ernescliffe, for whom 
he said he mourned as for his own son, and, with scarcely les§ 
warmth, of Harry, mentioning the high esteem all had felt for the 
boy, and the good effect which the influence of his high and truth- 
ful spirit had produced on the other youngsters, who keenly re- 
gretted him. 

Captain Gordon added that the will of the late Captain Ernes- 
cliffe had made him guardian of his sons, and that he believed poor 
Alan had died intestate. He should therefore take upon himself 
the charge of young Hector, and he warmly thanked Dr. May and 
his family for all the kindness that the lad had received. 

Though the loss of poor Hector’s visits was regretted, it was, on 
the whole, a comforting letter, and would give still more comfort in 
future time. 

Kichard contrived to come home through Oxford and see Nor- 
man, whom he found calm, and almost relieved by the cessation from 
suspense ; not inclined, as his father had feared, to drown sorrow 
in labour ; but regarding his grief as an additional call to devote 
himself to ministerial work. In fact, the blow had fallen when he 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 157 

first heard the rumour of danger, and could not recur with the same 
force. 

Richard was surprised to find that Margaret was less cast down 
than he could have dared to hope. It did not seem like an affliction 
to her. Her countenance wore the same gentle smile, and she was 
as ready to participate in all that passed, finding sympathy for the 
little pleasures of Aubrey and Gertrude, and delighting in Flora’s 
baby ; as well as going over Cocksmoor politics with a clearness and 
accuracy that astonished him, and asking questions about his parish 
and occupations, so as fully to enjoy his short visit, which she truly 
called the greatest possible treat. 

If it had not been for the momentary consternation that she had 
seen upon Dr. Spencer’s face, Ethel would have been perfectly 
satisfied ; but she could not help sometimes entertaining a dim fancy 
that this composure came from a sense that she was too near Alan 
to mourn for him. Could it be true that her frame was more 
wasted, that there was less capability of exertion, that her hours 
became later in the morning, and that her nights were more wake- 
ful? Would she fade away? Ethel longed to know what her 
father thought, but she could neither bear to inspire him with the 
apprehension, nor to ask Dr. Spencer’s opinion, lest she should be 
confirmed in her own. 

The present affliction altered Dr. May more visibly than the 
death of his wife, perhaps, because there was not the same need of 
exertion. If he often rose high in faith and resignation, he would 
also sink very low under the sense of bereavement and disap- 
pointment. Though Richard was his stay, and Norman his pride, 
there was something in Harry more congenial to his own temper, 
and he could not but be bowed down by the ruin of such bright 
hopes. With all his real submission, he was weak, and gave way 
to outbursts of grief, for which he blamed himself as unthankful ; 
and his whole demeanour was so saddened and depressed, that Ethel 
and Dr. Spencer consulted mournfully over him, whenever they 
walked to Cocksmoor together. 

This was not as often as usual, though the walls of the school 
were rising, for Dr. Speiicer had taken a large share of his friend’s 
work for the present, and both physicians were much occupied 
by the condition of Mr. Ramsden, who was fast sinking, and, for 
some -weeks, seemed only kept alive by their skill. The struggle 
ended at last, and his forty years’ cure of Stoneborough was 
closed. It made Dr. May very sad — his affections had tendrils for 
any thing that he had known from boyhood ; and though he had 
often spoken strong words of the Yicar, he now sat sorrowfully 
moralizing, and making excuses. ‘ People in former times had not 
go high an estimate of pastoral duty— poor Mr. Ramsden had not 
much education — he was already old when better times came in — 
he might have done better in a less difficult parish with better laity 


158 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


fco support him, &c.’ Yet after all, he exclaimed with one of his 
impatient gestures, 1 Better have my Harry’s seventeen years than 
his sixty-seven ! ’ 

‘ Better improve a talent, than lay it by ! ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Hush ! Ethel. How do you know what he may have done ? 
If he acted up to his own standard, he did more than most of us.’ 

I Which is best,’ said Ethel, 1 a high standard not acted up to, 
or a lower one fulfilled ? ’ 

I I think it depends on the will,’ said Margaret. 

1 Some people are angry with those whose example would shew 
that there is a higher standard,’ said Ethel. 

1 And,’ said Margaret, ‘ some who have the high one set before 
them, content themselves with knowing that it cannot be fully at- 
tained, and will not try.’ 

1 The standard is the effect of early impressions,’ said Hr. May. 
1 1 should be very sorry to think it could not be raised.’ 

‘ Faithful in a little — ’ said Ethel. ‘ I suppose all good people’s 
standard is always going higher.’ 

1 As they comprehend more of absolute perfection,’ said Margaret. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The city’s golden spire it was, 

When hope and health were strongest, 

But now it is the church-yard grass, 

We look upon the longest. 

E. B. Browning. 

A disinclination for exertion or going into public hung upon Hi. 
May, but he was obliged to rouse himself to attend the Town 
Council meeting, which was held a few days after the Vicar’s funeral, 
fco decide on the next appointment. If it had depended on himself 
alone, his choice would have been Mr. Edward Wilmot, whom the 
death of his good old father had uprooted from Settlesham ; and the 
girls had much hope, but he was too much out of spirits to be san- 
guine. He said that he should only hear 'a great deal of offensive 
stuff from Tomkins the brewer ; and that, in the desire to displease 
nobody, the votes should settle down on some nonentity, was the 
best which was likely to happen. Thus, grumbling, he set off, and 
his daughters watched anxiously for his return. They saw him 
come through the garden with a quick, light step, that made them 
augur well, and he entered the room with the corners of his mouth 
turning up. ‘ I see,’ said Ethel, ‘ it is all right.’ 

‘ They were going to have made a very absurd choice.’ 

‘ But you prevented it ? Who was it ? ’ 

‘ Ah ! I told you Master Ritchie was turning out a populai 
preacher.’ 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 159 

4 You don’t mean that they chose Richard!’ cried Margaret, 
breathlessly. 

4 As sure as my name is Dick May, they did, every man of them, 
except Tomkins, and even he held his tongue ; I did not think it 
of them,’ said the Doctor, almost overcome ; 4 but there is much 
more goodness of heart in the world than one gives it credit for.’ 

And good Dr. May was not one to give the least credit for all 
that was like himself. 

4 But it was Richard’s own doing,’ he continued. 4 Those ser- 
mons made a great impression, and they love the boy, because he 
has grown up among them. The old Mayor waddled up to me, as 
I came in, telling me that they had been talking it over, and they 
were unanimously agreed that they could not have a parson they 
should like better than Mr. Richard.’ 

4 (rood old Mr. Doddesley ! I can see him ! ’ cried Ethel, 
i expected it so little, that I thought he meant some Richards; 
but no, he said Mr. Richard May, if he had nothing better in view 
— they liked him, and knew he was a very steady, good young gen- 
tleman, and if he took after his fathers that went before him — and 
they thought we might like to have him settled near ! ’ 

4 How very kind!’ said Margaret, as the tears came. 4 We 
shall love our own townsfolk better than ever ! ’ 

4 1 always told you so, if you would but believe it. They have 
warm, sound hearts, every one of them ! I declare, I did not know 
which way to look, I was so sorry to disappoint them.’ 

4 Disappoint them ! ’ cried Margaret, in consternation. 

4 1 was thinking/ said Ethel. 4 1 do not believe Richard would 
think himself equal to this place in such a state as it is. He is so 
diffident.’ 

4 Yes,’ said Dr. May, 4 if he were ten or twelve years older, it 
would be another thing ; but here, where everything is to be done, 
hr would not bring weight or force enough. He would only work 
himself to death, for individuals, without going to the root. Mar- 
garet, my darling, I am very sorry to have disappointed you so 
much — it would have been as great a pleasure as we could have had 
in this world to have the lad here — ’ 

4 And Cocksmoor,’ sighed Ethel. 

4 1 shall be grateful all my life to those good people for thinking 
of it,’ continued the Doctor ; 4 but look you here, it was my business 
to get the best man chosen in my power and, though as to goodness, 
I believe the dear Ritchie has not many equals ; I don’t think we 
can conscientiously say he would be, at present, the best Vicar for 
Stoneborough.’ 

Ethel would not say no, for fear she should pain Margaret. 

Besides,’ continued Dr. May, 4 after having staved off the sale of the 
presentation as a sin, it would hardly have been handsome to have 


160 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


let my own son profit by it. It would have seemed as if wc bad 
our private ends, when Richard helped poor old Mr. Ramsden.’ 

Margaret owned this, and Ethel said Richard would be glad to 
be spared the refusal. 

4 1 was sure of it. The poor fellow would have been per- 
plexed between the right and consideration for us. A vicar here 
ought to carry things with a high hand, and that is hardest to do 
at a man’s own home, especially for a quiet lad like him.’ 

4 Yes, papa, it was quite right,’ said Margaret recovering her- 
self; 4 it has spared Richard a great deal.’ 

4 But are we to have Mr. Wilmot ? ’ said Ethel. 4 Think of our 
not having heard ! ’ 

4 Aye. If they would not have had Wilmot, or a man of his 
calibre, perhaps I might have let them offer it to Richard. I almost 
wish I had. — With help, and Ethel — ’ 

1 No, no! papa,’ said Margaret. 4 You are making me angry 
with myself for my folly. It is much better for Richard himself, 
and for us all, as well as the town. Think liow long we have 
wished for Mr. Wilmot ! ’ 

4 He will be in time for the opening of Cocksmoor school ! ’ 
cried Ethel. 4 How did you manage it ? ’ 

4 1 did not manage at all,’ said the Doctor. 4 1 told them exactly 
my mind, that Richard was not old enough for such arduous work ; 
and though no words could tell how obliged I was, if they asked me 
who was the best man for it I knew, I should say Edward Wilmot, 
and I thought he deserved something from us, for the work he did 
gratis, when he was second master. Tomkins growled a little, but, 
fortunately, no one was prepared with another proposal, so they all 
came round, and the Mayor is to write by this evening’s post, and 
so shall I. If we could only have given Richard a dozen more 
years ! ’ 

Margaret was somewhat comforted to find that the sacrifice had 
cost her father a good deal; she was always slightly jealous for 
Richard, and now that Alan was gone, she clung to him more than 
ever. His soft calm manner supported her more than any other 
human comforter, and she always yearned after him when absent, 
more than for all the other brothers ; but her father’s decision had 
been too high-minded for her to dare to wish it recalled, and she 
could not but own that Richard would have had to undergo more 
toil and annoyance, than perhaps his health would have endured. 

Flora had discontinued comments to her sisters, on her father’s 
proceedings, finding that observations mortified Margaret, and did 
not tend to peace with Ethel ; but she told her husband that she 
did not regret it much, for Richard would have exhausted his own 
income, and his father’s likewise, in paying Curates, and raising 
funds for charities. She scarcely expected Mr. Edward Wilmot to 
accept the offer, aware as he was, of the many disadvantages he 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 163 

should have to contend with, and unsuccessful as lie had been in 
dealing with the Ladies’ Committee. 

However, Mr. Wilmot signified his thankful acceptance, and, 
in due time, his familiar tap was heard at the drawing-room door, 
at tea-time, as if he had just returned after the holidays. He was 
most gladly welcomed, and soon was installed in his own plaoe with 
his god-daughter, Mary, blushing with pleasure at pouring out his 
coffee. 

1 Well, Ethel, how is Cocksmoor ? How like old times ! ’ 

1 Oh ! ’ cried Ethel, 1 we are so glad you will see the beginning 
of the school ! ’ 

1 I hear you are finishing Cherry Elwood, too.’ 

1 Much against Ethel’s will,’ said Margaret ; ‘ but we thought 
Cherry not easily spoilt. And Whitford school seems to be in very 
good order. Dr. Spencer went and had an inspection of it, and 
conferred with all the authorities.’ 

4 Ah ! we have a jewel of a parishioner for you,’ said Dr. May. 

I have some hopes of Stoneborough now.’ 

Mr. Wilmot did not look too hopeful, but he smiled, and asked 
after Granny Hall, and the children. 

4 Polly grew up quite civilized,’ said Ethel. 4 She lives at 
Whitford, with some very respectable people, and sends Granny 
presents, which make her merrier than ever. Last time it was a 
bonnet, and J enny persuaded her to go to Church in it, though, she 
said, what she called the moon of it, was too small.’ 

‘ How do the people go on ? ’ 

4 1 cannot say much for them. It is disheartening. We really 
have done nothing. So very few go to Church regularly. 

4 None at all went in my time,’ said Mr. Wilmot. 

4 Elwood always goes,’ said Mary, 4 and Taylor; yes, and Sam 
Hall, very often, and many of the women, in the evening, because 
they like to walk home with the children.’ 

4 The children ? the Sunday scholars ? ’ 

4 Oh ! everyone, that is big enough, comes to school now, here, on 
Sunday. If only the teaching were better — ’ 

4 Have you sent out any more pupils to service ? ’ 

4 Not many. There is Willie Brown, trying to be Dr. Spencer’s 
little groom,’ said Ethel. 

4 But I am afraid it will take a great deal of the Doctor’s 
patience to train him,’ added Margaret. 

4 It is hard,’ said Dr. May. 4 He did it purely to oblige Ethel; 
and, I tell her, when he lames the pony, I shall expect her to buy 
another for him, out of the Cocksmoor funds.’ 

Ethel and Mary broke out in a chorus of defence of Willie 
Brown. 

4 There was Ben Wheeler,’ said Mary, 4 who went to work in the 


162 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


quarries ; and tlie men could not teach him to say bad words 
because the young ladies told him not.’ 

‘ The young ladies have not quite done nothing,’ said Dr. May 
smiling. 

‘ These are only little stray things, and Cherry has done the 
chief of them,’ said Ethel. ‘ Oh ! it is grievously bad still,’ she 
added, sighing. ‘ Such want of truth, such ungoverned tongues and 
tempers, such godlessness altogether ! It is only surface-work, 
taming the children at school, while they have such homes ; and 
their parents — even if they do come where they might learn better, 
are always liable to be upset, as they call it — turned out of their 
places in Church, and they will not run the chance.’ 

‘ The Church must come to them,’ said Mr. Wilmot. 1 Could 
the school be made fit to be licensed for Service.’ 

1 Ask our architect ? said Dr. May. ‘ There can be little 
doubt.’ 

‘ I have been settling that I must have a Curate specially for 
Cocksmoor,’ said Mr. Wilmot. ‘ Can you tell me of one, Ethel — or 
perhaps Margaret could ? ’ 

Margaret could only smile faintly, for her heart was beating. 

‘ Seriously,’ said Mr. Wilmot, turning to Dr. May, 4 do you 
think Richard would come and help us here ? ’ 

‘ This seems to be his destiny,’ said the Doctor, smiling, 1 only 
it would not be fair to tell you, lest you should be jealous — that the 
Town Council had a great mind for him.’ 

The matter was explained, and Mr. Wilmot was a great deal 
more struck by Dr. May’s conduct, than the good Doctor thought 
it deserved. Everyone was only too glad that Richard should 
come as Cocksmoor Curate ; and, though the stipend was very 
small — since Mr. Wilmot meant to have other assistance — yet , by 
living at home, it might be feasible. 

Margaret’s last words that night to Ethel were, ‘ The last wish 
I had dared to make is granted ! ’ 

Mr. Wilmot wrote to Richard, who joyfully accepted his pro- 
posal, and engaged to come home as soon as his present Rector 
could find a substitute. 

Dr. Spencer was delighted, and, it appeared, had already had a 
view to such possibilities in designing the plan of the school. 

The first good effect of Mr. Wilmot’s coming was, that Dr. 
Spencer was cured of the vagrant habits of going to Church at 
Abbctstoke or Fordholm, that had greatly concerned his friend, Dr. 
May, who could never get any answer from him except that he was 
not a Town Councillor, and, as to example, it was no way to set that 
to sleep through the sermon. 

To say that Dr. May never slept under the new dynasty would 
be an over-statement, but slumber certainly prevailed in the Minster 
to a far less degree than formerly. One cause might be that it was 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


163 


not shut up unaired from one Sunday to another, but that the 
chime of the bells was no longer an extraordinary sound on a week- 
day. It was at first pronounced that time could not be found for 
going to Church on week-days without neglecting other things, but 
Mary, who had lately sat very loose to the school-room, began gra- 
dually to slip down to Church whenever the Service was neither too 
early nor too late ; and Gertrude was often found trotting by her 
side — going to mamma, as the little Daisy called it, from some con- 
fusion between the Church and the Cloister, which Ethel was in no 
hurry to disturb. 

Lectures in Lent filled the Church a good deal, as much per- 
haps from the novelty as from better motives, and altogether there 
was a renewal of energy in parish work. The poor had become so 
little accustomed to pastoral care, that the doctors and the district 
visitors were obliged to report cases of sickness to the Clergy, and 
vainly tried to rouse the people to send of their own accord. How- 
ever the better leaven began to work, and, of course, there was a 
ferment, though less violent than Ethel had expected. 

Mr. Wilmot set more cautiously to work than he had done in 
his younger days, and did not attack prejudices so openly, and he 
had an admirable assistant in Dr. Spencer. Everyone respected 
the opinion of the travelled Doctor, and he had a courteous clever 
process of the reduction to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, 
while it never gave offence. As to the Ladies’ Committee, though 
there had been expressions of dismay, when the tidings of the 
appointment first went abroad, not one of the whole “ Aonian 
choir” liked to dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he talked them over, 
individually, into a most conformable state, merely by taking their 
compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it only the 
natural state of things, that the Vicar should reign over the chari- 
ties of the place. 

The Committee was not dissolved — that would have been an 
act of violence — but it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and 
he and his Curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, 
and chose the books — a state of affairs brought about with so much 
quietness, that Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. 
Wilmot, had been the chief mover. 

Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and Miss 
Ilich keeper of the lending library, occupations which delighted 
them greatly ; and Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of 
action was springing up, now that the period was over, of each 
<< doing right in her own eyes.” 

‘ In fact,’ said Dr. Spencer, ‘ when women have enough to do, 
they are perfectly tractable.’ 

The Cocksmoor accounts were Ethel’s chief anxiety. It seemed 
as if now there might be a school-house, but with little income to 
depend upon, since poor Alan Ernescliffe’s annual £10 was at an 


L64. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


end. However, Dr. May leant over her as she was puzzling ovei 
her pounds, shillings and pence, and laid a cheque upon her desk. 
She looked up in his face. * We must make Cocksmoor Harry’s 
heir,’ he said. 

By-and-by it appeared that Cocksmoor was not out of Hector 
Ernescliffe’s mind. The boy’s letters to Margaret had been brief, 
matter of fact, and discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and 
there was not much to be gathered about him from Tom, on his 
return for the Easter holidays, but soon poor Hector wrote a long 
dismal letter to Margaret. 

Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recol- 
lection of his brother, and the happy hopes with which they had 
taken possession, came thronging upon him. The house was for- 
lorn, and the corner that had been unpacked for their reception, was 
as dreary a contrast to the bright home at Stoneborough, as was 
the dry, stern Captain, to the fatherly warm-hearted Doctor. Poor 
Hector had little or nothing to do, and the pleasure of possession 
had not come yet ; he had no companion of his own age, and bash- 
fulness made him shrink with dislike from introduction to his 
tenants and neighbours. 

There was not an entertaining book in the house, he declared, 
and the Captain snubbed him, if he bought anything he cared to 
read. — The Captain was always at him to read musty old improving 
books, and talking about the position he would occupy ! The even- 
ings were altogether unbearable, and if it were not for rabbit shoot- 
ing now, and the half-year soon beginning again, Hector declared 
he should be ready to cut and run, and leave Captain Gordon and 
Maplewood to each other — and very well matched too ! He was 
nearly in a state of mind to imitate that unprecedented boy, who 
wrote a letter to the Times complaining of extra weeks. 

As to Cocksmoor, Ethel must not think it forgotten; he had 
spoken to the Captain about it, and the old wooden-head had gone 
and answered that it was not incumbent on him, that Cocksmoor 
had no claims upon him, and he could not make it up out of his 
allowance ; for the old fellow would not give him a farthing more 
than he had before, and had said that was too much. 

There was a great blur over the words “ wooden-head,” as if 
Hector had known that Margaret would disapprove, and had tried 
to scratch it out. She wrote all the consolation in her power, and 
exhorted him to patience, apparently without much effect. She 
would not shew his subsequent letters, and the reading and answer- 
ing them fatigued her so much, that Hector’s writing was an unwel- 
come sight at Stoneborough. Each letter, as Ethel said, seemed so 
much taken out of her, and she begged her not to think about them. 

‘ Nothing can do me much good, or harm, now,’ said Margaret; 
and seeing Ethel’s anxious looks, ‘ Is it not my greatest comfort 
that Hector can still treat me as liis sister, or, if I can only be of 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 165 

* my use .n keeping him patient ? Only think of the danger of a 
l>oy, in his situation, being left without sympathy ! 5 

There was nothing more to be said. They all felt it was good 
lor them that the building at Cocksmoor gave full occupation to 
thoughts and conversation ; indeed, Tom declared they never 
walked in any other direction, nor talked of anything else, and that 
without Hector or George Rivers, he had nobody to speak to ! 
However he was a good deal tranquillized by an introduction to Hr. 
Spencer’s laboratory, where he compounded mixtures that Hr. 
Spencer promised should do no more harm than was reasonable, 
to himself, or any one else. Ethel suspected that, if Tom had 
chanced to singe his eyebrows, his friend would not have regretted 
a blight to his nascent coxcombry, but he was far too careful of his 
own beauty to do any such thing. 

Richard was set at liberty just before Easter, and came home to 
his new charge. He was aware of what had taken place, and 
heartily grateful for the part his father had taken. To work at 
Cocksmoor, under Mr. Wilmot, and to live at home, was felicity ; 
and he fitted at once into his old place, and resumed all the little 
home services for which he had been always famed. Ethel was 
certain that Margaret was content, when she saw her brother bend- 
ing over her, and the sense of reliance and security that the presence 
of the silent Richard imparted to the whole family was something 
very peculiar, especially as they were so much more active and 
demonstrative than he was. I* 

Mr. Wilmot put him at once in charge of the hamlet. The 
inhabitants were still a hard, rude, unpromising race, and there 
were many flagrant evils amongst them, but the last few years had 
not been without some effect — some were less obdurate, a few really 
touched, and, almost all, glad of instruction for their children. If 
Ethel’s perseverance had done nothing else, it had, at least, been a 
witness, and her immediate scholars shewed the influence of her 
lessons. 

*♦« 


CHAPTER XV T. 


‘ Then out into the world, my course I did determine ; 

Though to be rich, was not my wish, yet to be great was charming. 

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education; 
liesolved was i, at least to try, to mend my situation.’ 

Burns. 

In the meantime the Session of Parliament had begun, and the 
Rivers’ party had, since February, inhabited Park Lane. Meta 
had looked pale and pensive, as she bade her friends, at Stoneborough, 
good bye ; but only betrayed that she had rather have staid at home, 
by promising herself great enjoyment in meeting them again at 
Easter. 


L66 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Flora was, on tlie other hand, in the state of calm patronaga 
that betokened perfect satisfaction. She promised wonders for 
Miss Bracy’s sisters — talked of inviting Mary and Blanche to see 
sights and take lessons ; and undertook to send all the apparatus 
needed by Cocksmoor school ; and she did, accordingly, send down 
so many wonderful articles, that Curate and school-mistress were 
both frightened ; Mrs. Taylor thought the easels were new-fashioned 
instruments of torture ; and Ethel found herself in a condition to be 
liberal to Stoneborough National School. 

Flora was a capital correspondent, and made it her business to 
keep Margaret amused, so that the home party were well informed 
of the doings of each of her days — and very clever her descriptions 
were. She had given herself a dispensation from general society 
until after Easter ; but, in the meantime, both she and Meta seemed 
to find great enjoyment in country rides and drives, and in quiet 
little dinners at home, to George’s agreeable political friends. With 
the help of two such ladies as Mrs. and Miss Bivers, Ethel could 
imagine George’s house pleasant enough to attract clever people ; but 
she was surprised to find how full her 'sister’s letters were of po- 
litical news. 

It was a period when great interests were in agitation ; and the- 
details of London talk and opinions were extremely welcome. 
Dr. Spencer used to come in to ask after ‘ Mrs. Bivers’s Intelli- 
gencer ; ’ and, when he heard the lucid statements, would say, she 
ought to have been a ‘ special correspondent.’ And her father de- 
clared that her news had made him twice as welcome to his patients ; 
but her cleverest sentences always were prefaced with “ George 
says,” or “ George thinks,” in a manner that made her appear merely 
the dutiful echo of his sentiments. 

In an early letter, Flora mentioned how she had been reminded 
of poor Harry, by finding Miss W alkinghame’s card. That lady lived 
with her mother at Bichmond, and, on returning the visit, Flora 
was warmly welcomed by the kind old Lady Walkinghame, who in- 
sisted on her bringing her baby and spending a long day. The 
sisters-in-law had been enchanted with Miss Walkinghame, whose 
manners, wrote Flora, certainly merited papa’s encomium. 

On the promised “ long day,” they found an unexpected addition 
to the party, Sir Henry Walkinghame, who had newly returned from 
the continent. “ A fine-looking, agreeable man, about five-and- 
tliirty,” Flora described him, “ very lively and entertaining. He 
talked a great deal of Dr. Spencer, and of the life in the caves at 
Thebes ; and he asked me whether that unfortunate place, Cocks- 
moor, did not owe a great deal to me, or to one of my sisters. I left 
Meta to tell him that story, and they became very sociable over it.” 

A day or two after — “ Sir Henry Walkinghame has been dining 
with us. lie has a very good voice, and we had some delightful 
music in the evening.” 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


167 


By-and-by, Sir Henry was the second cavalier, when they went 
to an Oratorio, and Meta’s letter overflowed with the descriptions 
she had heard from him of Italian Church music. He always went 
to Borne for Easter, and had been going as usual, this spring, but ho 
lingered, and, for once, remained in England, where he had only in- 
tended to spend a few days on necessary business. 

The Easter recess was not spent at the Grange, but at Lady 
Leonora’s pretty house in Surrey. She had invited the party in 
so pressing a manner that Flora did not think it right to decline. 
Meta expressed some disappointment at missing Easter among her 
school-children, but she said a great deal about the primroses and 
the green cornfields, and nightingales — all which Ethel would have 
set down to her trick of universal content, if it had not appeared 
that Sir Henry was there too, and shared in all the delicious rides. 

‘ What would Ethel say,’ wrote Flora, ‘ to have our little Meta 
as Lady of the Manor of Cocksmoor ? He has begun to talk about 
Hrydale, and there are various suspicious circumstances that Lady 
Leonora marks with the eyes of a discreet dowager. It was edify- 
ing to see how, from smiles, we came to looks, and by-and-by to 
confidential talks, which have made her entirely forgive me for 
having so many tall brothers. Poor dear old Mr. Livers ! Lady 
Leonora owns that it was the best thing possible for that sweet girl 
that he did not live any longer to keep her in seclusion ; it is so 
delightful to see her appreciated as she deserves, and with her 
beauty and fortune, she might make any choice she pleases. In fact, 
I believe Lady Leonora would like to look still higher for her, but 
this would be mere ambition, and we should be far better satisfied 
with such a connection as this, founded on mutual and increasing 
esteem, with a man so well suited to her, and fixing her so close to 
us. You must not, however, launch out into an ocean of possibili- 
ties, for the good aunt has only infected me with the castle-building 
propensities of chaperons, and Meta is perfectly unconscious, looking 
on him as too hopelessly middle-aged to entertain any such evil de- 
signs, avowing freely that she likes him, and treating him very nearly 
as she does papa. It is my business to keep “ our aunt,” who, be- 
tween ourselves has, below the surface, the vulgarity of nature that 
high-breeding cannot eradicate, from startling the little humming- 
bird, before the net* has been properly twined round her bright little 
heart. As far as I can see, he is much smitten, but very cautious 
in his approaches, and he is wise.’ 

Margaret did not know what dismay she conveyed, as she handed 
this letter to her sister. There was no rest for Ethel till she could 
be alone with her father. ‘ Could nothing prevent it ? Could not 
Flora be told of Mr. Bivers’s wishes ? ’ she asked. 

1 His wishes would have lain this way.’ 

* I do not know that.’ 

i Jt is no concern of ours. There is nothing objectionable here 
21 


168 


THE DAISY CIIAm. 


and though I can’t say it is not a disappointment, it ought not to be. 
The long and short of it is, that I never ought to have told you 
anything about it.’ 

1 Poor Norman ! ’ 

* Absurd ! The lad is hardly one-and-twenty. Very few marry 
a first-love.’ (Ah, Ethel !) ‘ Poor old Rivers only mentioned it as 

a refuge from fortune-hunters, and it stands to reason that he would 
have preferred this. Any way, it is awkward for a man with empty 
pockets to marry an heiress, and it is wliolesomer for him to work 
for his living. Better that it should be out of his head at once, if 
it were there at all. I trust it was all our fancy. I would not 
have him grieved now for worlds, when his heart is sore.’ 

‘ Somehow,’ said Ethel, ‘ though he is depressed and silent, I like 
it better than I did last Christmas.’ 

‘ Of course, when we were laughing out of the bitterness of our 
hearts,’ said Dr. May, sighing. ‘ It is a luxury to let oneself alone 
to be sorrowful.’ 

Ethel did not know whether she desired a tete a tete with Nor- 
man or not. She was aware that he had seen Flora’s letter, and she 
did not believe that he would ever mention the hopes that must have 
been dashed by it ; or, if he should do so, how could she ever guard 
her father’s secret ? At least, she had the comfort of recognizing 
the accustomed Norman in his manner, low-spirited, indeed, and 
more than ever dreamy and melancholy, but not in the unnatural 
and excited state that had made her unhappy about him. She could 
not help telling Dr. Spencer, that this was much more the real 
brother. 

‘ I dare say,’ was the answer, not quite satisfactory in tone. 

‘ I thought you would like it better.’ 

‘ Truth is better than fiction, certainly. But I am afraid he has 
a tendency to morbid self-contemplation, and you ought to shake 
him out of it.’ 

‘What is the difference between self-contemplation and self- 
examination ? ’ 

‘ The difference between your brother and yourself. Ah ! you 
think that no answer. Will you have a medical simile ? Self- 
examination notes the symptoms and combats them; self-contem- 
plation, does as I did when I was unstrung by that illness at Poon- 
shedagore, and was always feeling my own pulse. It dwells on 
them, and perpetually deplores itself. Oh dear ! this is no better 
— what a wretch I am. It is always studying its deformities in a 
moral looking-glass.’ 

‘ Yes, I think poor Norman does that, but I thought it right and 
humble.’ 

‘ The humility of a self-conscious mind. It is the very reverse 
of your father, who is the most really humble man in existence.’ 

1 Do you call self-consciousness a fault ? ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 169 

* No. I call it a misfortune. In the vain, it leads to prudent 
vanity ; in the good, to a painful effort of humility.’ 

‘ I don’t think I quite understand what it is.’ 

‘ No, and you have so much of your father in you that you never 
will. But take care of your brother, and don’t let his brains work.’ 

How Ethel was to take care of him she did not know; she 
CGuld only keep a heedful eye on him, and rejoice when he took 
Tom out for a long walk — a companion certainly not likely to pro- 
mote the working of the brain — but though it was in the opposite 
direction to Cocksmoor, Tom came home desperately cross, snubbed 
Gertrude, and fagged Aubrey; but then, as Blanche observed, 
perhaps that was only because his trowsers were splashed. 

In her next solitary walk to Cocksmoor, Norman joined Ethel. 
She was gratified, but she could not think of one safe word worth 
saying to him, and for a mile they preserved an absolute silence, 
until he first began, * Ethel, I have been thinking — ’ 

‘ That you have ! ’ said she, between hope and dread, and the 
thrill of being again treated as his friend. 

1 1 want to consult you. Don’t you think now that Richard is 
settled at home, and if Tom will study medicine, that I could be 
spared.’ 

1 Spared ! ’ exclaimed Ethel. * You are not much at home.’ 

‘ I meant more than my present absences. It is my earnest 
wish — ’ he paused, and the continuation took her by surprise. ‘ Do 
you think it would give my father too much pain to part with me as 
a Missionary to New Zealand ? ’ 

She could only gaze at him in mute amazement. 

‘ Do you think he could bear it,’ said Norman, hastily. 

‘ He would consent,’ she replied. ‘ O Norman, it is the most 
glorious thing man can do ! How I wish I could go with you.’ 

I Your mission is here,’ said Norman, affectionately. 

‘ I know it is — I am contented with it,’ said Ethel ; ‘ but oh ! 
Norman, after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found 
the more excellent way.’ 

‘ Hush ! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such 
unmixed motives as yours.’ 

She made a sound of inquiry. 

I I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of 
this feverish life of competition and controversy — ’ 

‘ I thought you were so happy with your Fellowship. I thought 
Oxford was your delight.’ 

1 She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. 
It is not her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are 
not fretted or perplexed.’ 

1 Perplexed ? ’ repeated Ethel. 

1 It is not so now,’ he replied. ‘God forbid ! But where better 
men have been led astray, I have been bewildered ; till, Ethel, I 


170 


HIE DAISY CHAIN. 


have felt as if the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and 
I have only been able to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might 
know the truth.’ 

‘You knew it!’ said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing search- 
ingly at him. 

‘ I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presump- 
tion, I suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.’ 

Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, ‘ It is past.’ 

‘ Yes, thank Him who is Truth. You ail saved me, though you 
did not know it.’ 

‘ When was this ? ’ she asked, timidly. 

‘ The worst time was before the Long Vacation. They told me 
I ought to read this book, and that. Harvey Anderson used to o nme 
primed with arguments. I could always overthrow them, but when 
I came to glory in doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Any way, they 
left a sting. It might be, that I doubted my owa sincerity, from 
knowing that I had got to argue, chiefly because I liked to be looked 
on as a champion.’ 

Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid 
habit of self-contemplation. 

‘ I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more 
my own convictions failed me ; and, by the time you came up to 
Oxford, I knew how you would have shrunk from him who was your 
pride, if you could have seen into the secrets beneath.’ 

Ethel took hold of his hand. ‘ You seemed bright,’ she said. 

‘ It melted like a bad dream before — before the humming-bird, 
and with my father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject 
again.’ 

‘ How could you ? Was it safe ? ’ 

‘ I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my 
father, or the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or — or — things at the 
Grange, would bring peace back ; but there were dark hours, and I 
knew that there could be no comfort till I had examined and fought 
it out.’ „ 

‘ I suppose examination was right,’ said Ethel, ‘ for a man, and 
defender of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible 
thought away. But I can’t tell how it feels.’ 

‘ Worse than you have power to imagine,’ said Norman, shudder- 
ing. ‘ It is over now. I worked out their fallacies, and went over 
the reasonings on our side.’ 

‘ And prayed — ’ said Ethel.’ 

‘ Indeed I did ; and the confidence returned, firmer, I hope, than 
ever. It had never gone for a whole day.’ 

Ethel breathed freely. ‘ It was life or death ’ she said, ‘ and we 
never knew it ! ’ 

‘ Perhaps not; but I know your prayers were angel-wings ever 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 171 

round me. And far more than argument was the thought of m;y 
father’s heart-whole Christian love and strength.’ 

I Norman, you believed, all the time, with your heart. This was 
only a bewilderment of your intellect.’ 

‘ I think you are right,’ said Norman. 1 To me the doubt was 
cruel agony — not the amusement it seems to some.’ 

‘ Because our dear home has made the truth, our joy, our union,’ 
said Ethel. ‘ And you are sure the cloud is gone, and for ever? ’ 
she still asked, anxiously. 

He stood -still. 1 For ever, I trust,’ he said. 1 1 hold the faith 
of my childhood in all its fullness as surely as — as ever I loved my 
mother and Harry.’ 

‘ I know you do,’ said Ethel. It was only a bad dream.’ 

‘ I hope I may be forgiven for it,’ said Norman. ‘ I do not 
know how far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was 
convinced last Christmas, but the shame and sting remained. I 
was not at peace again till the news of this spring came, and brought, 
with the grief, this compensation — that I could cast behind me and 
forget the criticisms and doubts that those miserable debates had 
connected with sacred words.’ 

‘ You will be the sounder for having fought the fight,’ said Ethel. 

I I do not dread the like shocks,’ said her brother, ‘ but I long to 
leave this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there 
should be a constant defence and battle, but I am not fit for it. I 
argue for my own triumph, and, in heat and harassing, devotion is 
lost. Besides, the comparison of intellectual power has been my 
bane all my life.’ 

‘ I thought “ praise was your penance here ” ’ 

‘ I would fain render it so, but — in short, I must be away from 
it all, and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the 
rudiments, and forgetting subtle arguments.’ 

1 Forgetting your self,’ said Ethel. 

1 Bight, I want to have no leisure to think about myself,’ said 
Norman. 1 1 am never so happy as at such times.’ 

I And you want to find work so far away ? ’ 

I I cannot help feeling drawn towards those Southern seas. I am 
glad you can give me good speed. But what do you think about 
my father ? ’ 

Ethel thought and thought. ‘ I know he would not hinder you,’ 
she repeated. 

1 But you dread the pain for him ? I had talked to Tom about 
taking his profession ; but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, 
though, I believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only 
arises from a few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I 
could soon talk him.’ 

1 Tom will not stand in your place,’ said Ethel. 

‘ He will be more equable and more to be depended upon,’ said 


172 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Norman. ‘ None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear 
my alternative. If you think my going would he too much grief 
for papa, or if Tom be set against helping him in his practice, 
there is an evident leading of Providence, shewing that I am un- 
worthy of this work. In that case I would go abroad and throw 
myself, at once, with all my might, into the study of medicine, and 
get ready to give my father some rest. It is a shame that all his 
sons should turn away from his profession.’ 

1 1 am more than ever amazed ! ’ cried Ethel. ‘ I thought you 
detested it. I thought papa never wished it for you. He said you 
had not nerve.’ 

‘ He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me,’ said 
Norman. ‘ With heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for 
whatever is his duty.’ 

‘ How he would like to have you to watch and help. But New 
Zealand would be so glorious ! ’ 

1 Glory is not for me,’ said Norman. * Understand, Ethel, the 
choice is New Zealand, or going at once — at once, mind — to study 
at Edinburgh or Paris.’ 

‘ New Zealand at once ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ I suppose I must stay for Divinity lectures, but my intention 
must be avowed,’ said Norman, hastily. 1 And, now, will you sound 
my father ? I cannot.’ 

‘ I can’t sound,’ said Ethel. * I can only do things point-blank.’ 

1 Do then,’ said Norman, 1 any way you can ! Only let me know 
which is best for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, 
good old Unready one,’ he added, kindly. ‘ I believe you are the 
one who would be shoved in front, if we were obliged to face a 
basilisk.’ 

The brightness that had come over Norman, when he had dis- 
charged his cares upon her, was encouragement enough for Ethel. 
She only asked how much she was to repeat of their conversation ? 

‘ Whatever you think best. I do not want to grieve him, but 
he must not think it fine in me.’ 

Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent 
him from doing that. 

It was not consistent with cautious sounding, that Norman was 
always looking appealingly towards her ; and, indeed, she could not 
wait long with such a question on her mind. She remained with 
her father in the drawing-room, when the rest were gone up-stairs, 
and, plunging at once into the matter, she said, 1 Papa, there is 
something that Norman cannot bear to say to you himself.’ 

1 Humming-birds to wit ? ’ said Dr. May. 

‘ No, indeed but he wants to be doing something at once. What 
should you think of — of — there are two things ; one is — going out 
as a missionary — ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 173 

‘Humming-birds in another shape,’ said the Doctor, startled, 
but smiling, so as to pique her. 

‘ You mean to treat it as a boy’s fancy ! ’ said she. 

‘ It is rather suspicious,’ he said. ‘ Well, what is the other ol 
his two things ? ’ 

‘ The other is, to begin studying medicine at once, so as to help 
you.’ 

‘ Hey day ! ’ cried Dr. May, drawing up his tall vigorous figure, 
‘ does he think me so very ancient and superannuated ? ’ 

What could possess him to be so provoking and unsentimental 
to-night ? Was it her own bad management ? She longed to put 
an end to the conversation, and answered, ‘ No, but he thinks it hard 
that none of your sons should be willing to relieve you.’ 

‘ It won’t be Norman,’ said Dr. May. ‘ He is not made of the 
stuff. If he survived the course of study, every patient he lost, 
he would bring himself in guilty of murder, and there would soon 
be an end of him ! ’ 

‘ He says that a man can force himself to anything that is 
his duty.’ 

‘ This is not going to be his duty, if I can make it otherwise. 
What is the meaning of all this ? No, I need not ask, poor boy, it 
is what I was afraid of ! ’ 

‘ It is far deeper,’ said Ethel ; and she related great part of 
what she had heard in the afternoon. It was not easy to make her 
father listen — his line was to be positively indignant, rather than 
compassionate, when he heard of the doubts that had assailed poor 
Norman. ‘ Foolish boy, wdiat business had he to meddle with those 
accursed books, when he knew what they were made of — it was 
tasting poison, it was running into temptation ! He had no right to 
expect to come out safe — ’ and then he grasped tightly hold of 
Ethel’s hands, and as if the terror had suddenly flashed upon him, 
asked her, with dilated eye and trembling voice, whether she were 
sure that he was safe, and held the faith ! 

Ethel repeated his asseveration, and her father covered his face 
with his hands in thanksgiving. 

After this, he seemed somewhat inclined to hold poor Oxford in 
horror, only, as he observed, it would be going out of the frying-pan 
into the fire, to take refuge at Paris — a recurrence to the notion of 
Norman’s medical studies, that shewed him rather enticed by the 
proposal. 

He sent Ethel to bed, saying, he should talk to Norman and 
find out what was the meaning of it, and she walked up-stairs, much 
ashamed of having so ill-served her brother, as almost to have made 
him ridiculous. 

Dr. May and Norman never failed to come to an understancfiug, 
and after they had had a long drive into the country together, 
Dr May told Ethel that he was afraid, of what he ought not to be 


m 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


afraid of, that she was right, that the lad was very much in earnest 
now, at any rate, and if he should continue in the same mind, he 
hoped he should not be so weak as to hold him from a blessed work. 

From Norman, Ethel heard the warmest gratitude for his father’s 
kindness. Nothing could be done yet, he must wait patiently for 
the present, but he was to write to his uncle, Mr. Arnott, in New 
Zealand, and, without pledging himself, to make inquiries as to the 
mission; and, in the meantime, return to Oxford, where, to his 
other studies, he was to add a course of medical lectures, which, as 
Dr. May said, would do him no harm, would occupy his mind, and 
might turn to use wherever he was. 

Ethel was surprised to find that Norman wrote to Flora an 
expression of his resolution, that, if he found he could be spared 
from assisting his father as a physician, he would give himself up to 
the mission in New Zealand. Why should he tell anyone so un- 
sympathetic as Flora, who would think him wasted in either case ? 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Do not fear : Ileaven is as near, 

By water, as by land.’ 

Longfellow. 

Tiie fifth of May was poor Harry’s eighteenth birthd&y, and, as 
usual, was a holiday. Etheldred privately thought his memory 
more likely to be respected, if Blanche and Aubrey were employed, 
than if they were left in idleness; but Mary would have been 
wretched, had the celebration been omitted, and a leisure day was 
never unwelcome. 

Dr. Spencer carried off" Blanche and Aubrey for a walk, and 
Ethel found Mary at her great resort — Harry’s cupboard — dusting 
and arranging his books, and the array of birthday gifts, to which, 
even to-day, she had not failed to add the marker that had been in 
hand at Christmas. Ethel entreated her to come down, and Mary 
promised, and presently appeared, looking so melancholy, that, as a 
sedative, Ethel set her down to the basket of scraps to find materials 
for a tippet for some one at Cocksmoor, intending, as soon as Mar- 
garet should be dressed, to resign her morning to the others, invite 
Miss Bracy to the drawing-room, and read aloud. 

Gertrude was waiting for her walk, till nurse should have dressed 
Margaret, and was frisking about the lawn, sometimes looking in at 
the drawing-room window at her sisters, sometimes chattering to 
Adams at his work, or laughing to herself and the flowers, in that 
overflow of mirth, that seemed always bubbling up within her. 

She was standing in rapt contemplation of a pear-tree in full 
blossom, her hands tightly clasped behind the back, for greater 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


175 


safety from tlie temptation, when, hearing’ the shrubbery-gate open, 
she turned, expecting to see her papa, but was frightened at the 
sight of two strangers, and began to run off at full speed. 

‘ Stop ! Blanche ! Blanche, don’t you know me ? ’ The voice was 
that tone of her brothers, and she stood and looked, but it came 
from a tall, ruddy youth, in a shabby rough blue coat, followed by 
a grizzled old seaman. She was too much terrified and perplexed 
even to run. 

‘ What’s the matter ! Blanche, it is I ? Why, don’t you know 
me — Harry ? ’ 

‘ Boor brother Harry is drowned,’ she answered; and, with one 
bound, he was beside her, and, snatching her up, devoured her with 
kisses. 

‘ But me down — put me down, please,’ was all she could say. 

1 It is not Blanche ! What ? the little Daisy, I do believe ! ’ 

4 Yes, I am Gertrude, but please let me go; ’ and, at the same 
time, Adams hurried up, as if he thought her being kidnapped, but 
his aspect changed at the glad cry, ‘ Ha ! Adams ! how are you ? 
Are they all well ? ’ 

‘ ’Tisn’t never Master Harry ! Bless me ! ’ as Harry’s hand gave 
him sensible proof ; £ When* we had given you up for lost ! ’ 

1 My father well ? ’ Harry asked, hurrying the words one over 
the other. 

1 Quite well, sir, but he never held up his head since he heard it, 
and poor Miss Mary has so moped about. If ever I thought to see 
the like — ’ 

1 So they did not get my letter, but I can’t stop. Jennings will 
tell you — Take care of him. Come, Daisy — ’ for lie had kept her 
unwilling hand all the time. ‘ But wliat’s that for ? ’ pointing to 
the black ribbons, and, stopping short, startled. 

£ Because of poor Harry,’ said the bewildered child. 

£ 0 that’s right ! ’ cried he, striding on, and dragging her in a 
breathless run, as he threw open the well known doors; and, she 
escaping from him, hid her face in Mary’s lap, screaming, 1 He says 
he is Harry ! he says he is not drowned ! ’ 

At the same moment Ethel was in his arms, and his voice was 
sobbing, £ Ethel ! Mary ! home ! Where’s papa ? ’ One moment’s 
almost agonizing joy in the certainty of his identity ! but ere she 
could look or think, he was crying £ Mary ! 0 Ethel, see — ’ 

Mary had not moved, but sat as if turned to stone, with breath 
suspended, wide-stretched eyes, and death-like cheeks — Ethel sprang 
to her, ‘Mary, Mary dear, it is Harry! It is himself! Don’t 
you see? Speak to her, Harry.’ 

He seemed almost afraid to do so, but, recovering himself, ex- 
claimed, £ Mary, dear old Dolly, here I am ! 0, won’t you speak to 

me ? ’ he added, piteously, as he threw his arm round her and kissed 
her, startled at the cold touch of her cheek. 


170 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


The spell seemed broken, and, with a wild hoarse shriek that 
rang through the house, she struggled to regain her breath, but it 
would only come in painful, audible catches, as she held Harry V 
hand convulsively. 

‘ What have I done ? ’ he exclaimed, in distress. 

‘ What’s this ! Who is this frightening my dear ? ’ was old nurse’s 
exclamation, as she and James came, at the outcry. 

‘ 0 nurse, what have I done to her ? ’ repeated Harry. 

‘ It is joy — it is sudden joy! ’ said Ethel. * See, she is better 
now — ’ 

( Master Harry ! Well, I never ! ’ and James, with one wring 
of the hand, retreated, while old nurse was nearly hugged to death, 
declaring all the time that he didn’t ought to have come in such a 
way, terrifying everyone out of their senses ! and as for poor Miss 
May— 

‘ Where is she ? ’ cried Harry, starting at the sight ( f the vacant 
sofa. 

‘ Only up-stairs,’ said Ethel ; ‘ but where’s Alan ? Is not he 
come ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! Ethel, don’t you know ? ’ His face told but too plainly 

‘ Nurse ! nurse, how shall we tell her ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Poor dear ! ’ exclaimed nurse, sounding her tongue on the roof 
of her mouth. ‘ She’ll never abear it without her papa. Wait for 
him, I should say. But bless me, Miss Mary, to see you go on 
like that, when Master Harry is come back such a bonny man ! ’ 

‘ I’m better now,’ said Mary, with an effort. ‘ Oh ! Harry, speak 
to me again.’ 

‘ But Margaret! ’ said Ethel, while the brother was holding Mary 
in his embrace, and she lay tremulous with the new ecstasy, upon 
his breast — ‘ but Margaret. Nurse, you must go up, or she will 
suspect. I’ll come, when I can speak quietly — Oh ! poor Margaret ! 
If Ilichard would but come in ! ’ 

Ethel walked up and down the room, divided between a tumult 
of joy, grief, dread, and perplexity. — At that moment a little voice 
said at the door, ‘Please, Margaret wants Harry to come up 
directly.’ 

They looked upon one another in consternation. They had never 
thought of the child, who, of course, had flown up at once with the 
tidings. 

‘ Go up, Miss Ethel,’ said nurse. 

; Oh ! nurse, I can’t be the first. Come, Harry, come.’ 

Hand-in-hand, they silently ascended the stairs, and Ethel pushed 
open the door. Margaret was on her couch, her whole form and 
face in one throb of expectation. 

She looked into Harry’s face — the eagerness flitted like sun 
shine on the hill side, before a cloud, and, without a word, she held 
out her arms. 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


177 


He threw himself on his knees, and her fingers were clasped 
among his thick curls, while his frame heaved with suppressed sobs, 
1 0, if he could only have come back to you.’ 

‘ Thank God,’ she said ; then slightly pushing him back, she lay 
holding his hand in one of hers, and resting the other on his 
shoulder, and gazing in silence into his face. Each was still — she 
was gathering strength — he dreaded word or look. 

‘ Tell me how and where ? ’ she said at last. 

‘ It was in the Loyalty isles ; it was fever — the exertions for us. 
His head was lying here,’ and he pointed to his own breast. ‘ He 
sent his love to you — he bade me tell you there would be meeting 
by-and-by, in the haven where he would be. — I laid his head in the 
grave — under the great palm — I said some of the prayers — there are 
Christians round it.’ 

He said this in short disconnected phrases, often pausing to 
gather voice, but forced to resume, by her inquiring looks, and 
pressure of his hand. 

She Asked no more. ‘ Kiss me,’ she said, and when he had done 
so, ‘ Thank you, go down, please, all of you. You have brought 
great relief. Thank you. But I can’t talk yet. You shall tell me 
the rest by-and-by.’ 

She sent them all away, even Ethel, who would have lingered, 

‘ Go to him, dearest. Let me be alone. Don’t be uneasy. This 
is peace — but go.’ 

Ethel found Mary and Harry interlaced into one moving figure, 
and Harry greedily asking for his father and Norman, as if famish- 
ing for the sight of them. He wanted to set out to seek the former 
in the town, but his movements were too uncertain, and the girls 
clung to the newly-found, as if they could not trust him away from 
them. They wandered about, speaking, all three at random, without 
power of attending to the answers. It was enough to see him, and 
touch him ; they could not yet care where he had been. 

Dr. May was in the midst of them ere they were aware. One 
look, and he flung his arms round his son, but, suddenly letting him 
go, he burst away, and banged his study door. Harry would have 
followed. 

‘ No, don’t,’ said Ethel; then, seeing him disappointed, she came 
nearer, and murmured, ‘ He entered into his chamber and — ’ 

Harry silenced her with another embrace, but their father was 
with them again, to verify that he had really seen his boy, and ask, 
alas ! whether Alan were with Margaret. The brief sad answer sent 
him to see how it was with her. She would not let him stay ; she 
said it was infinite comfort, and joy was coming, but she would 
rather be still, and not come down till evening. 

Perhaps others would fain have been still, could they have borne 
an instant’s deprivation of the sight of their dear sailor, while 
greetings came thickly on him. The children burst iD, having heard 


ITS 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


a report in the town, and Dr. Spencer waited at the door for til* 
confirmation; but when Ethel would have flown out to him, he 
waved his hand, shut the door, and hurried away, as if a word to 
her would have been an intrusion. 

The brothers had been summoned by a headlong apparition of 
Will Adams in Cocksmoor school, shouting that Master Harry was 
come home; and Norman’s long legs out-speeding Diehard, had 
brought him back, flushed, and too happy for one word, while, 

‘ Well, Harry,’ was Dichard’s utmost, and his care for Margaret 
seemed to overpower everything else, as he went up, and was not so 
soon sent away. 

Words were few down-stairs. Blanche and Aubrey agreed that 
they thought people would have been much happier, but, in fact, 
the joy was oppressive from very newness. Ethel roamed about, 
she could not sit still without feeling giddy, in the strangeness of 
the revulsion. Her father sat, as if a word would break the blest 
illusion ; and Harry stood before each of them in turn, as if about 
to speak, but turned his address into a sudden caress, or 4)low on 
the shoulder, and tried to laugh. Little Gertrude, not understand- 
ing the confusion, had taken up her station under the table, and 
peeped out from beneath the cover. 

There was more composure as they sat at dinner, and yet there 
was very little talking or eating. Afterwards, Dr. May and Norman 
c^ultingly walked away to shew their Harry to Dr. Spencer and 
Mr. Wilmot ; and Ethel would gladly have tried to calm herself, 
and recover the balance of her mind, by giving thanks where they 
were due; but she did not know what to do with her sisters. 
Blanche was wild, and Mary still in so shakey a state of excitement, 
that she went*off into mad laughing, when Blanche discovered that 
they were in mourning for Harry. 

Nothing would satisfy Blanche but breaking in on Margaret, and 
climbing to the top of the great wardrobe to disinter the coloured 
raiment, beseeching that each favourite might be at once put on, to 
do honour to Harry. Mary chimed in with her, in begging for the 
wedding merinos — would not Margaret wear her beautiful blue ? 

1 No, my dear, I cannot,’ said Margaret, gently. 

Mary looked at her, and was again in a flood of tears, incoherently 
protesting, together with Ethel, that they would not change. 

‘ No, dears,’ said Margaret. ‘ I had rather you did so. You must 
not be unkind to Harry. He will not think I do not welcome him. 
1 am only too glad that Diehard would not let my impatience take 
away my right to wear this.’ 

Ethel knew that it was for life. 

Mary could not check her tears, and ivould go on making hcroio 
protests against leaving off her black, sobbing the more at each, 
Margaret’s gentle caresses seemed to make her worse; and Ethel, 
afraid that Margaret’s own composure would be overthrown ex* 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


178 

claimed, 4 How can you be so silly ? Come away ! and rather 
roughly pulled her out of the room, when she collapsed entirely at 
the top of the stairs, and sat crying helplessly. 

‘ I can’t think what’s the use of Harry’s coming home,’ Gertrude 
was heard saying to Richard. 4 It is very disagreeable,’ whereat 
Mary relapsed into a giggle, and Ethel felt frantic. 

4 Richard ! Ptichard, what is to be done with Mary ? She can’t 
help it, I believe, but this is not the way to treat the mercy that — ’ 

4 Mary had better go and lie down in her own room,’ said Richard, 
tenderly and gravely. 

4 0, please ! please ! ’ began Mary, 4 1 shall not see him when ho 
comes back ! ’ 

4 If you can’t behave properly when he does come,’ said Richard, 
4 there is no use in being there.’ 

4 Remember, Ritchie,’ said Ethel, thinking him severe, 4 she has 
not been well this long time. ’ 

Mary began to plead; but, with his own pretty persuasive 
manner, he took her by the hand, and drew her into his room ; and 
when he came down, after an interval, it was to check Blanche, who 
would have gone up to interrupt her with queries about the perpetual 
blue merino. He sat down with Blanche on the stair-case window- 
seat, and did not let her go, till he had gently talked her out of 
flighty spirits, into the soberness of thankfulness. 

Ethel, meanwhile, had still done nothing but stray about, long 
for loneliness, find herself too unsteady to finish her letters to Flora 
and Tom ; and, while she tried to make Gertrude think Harry a 
pleasant acquisition, she hated her own wild heart, that could not 
rejoice, nor give thanks, aright. 

By-and-by, Mary came down, with her bonnet on, quite quiet 
now. 4 1 am going to Church with Ritchie,’ she said. Ethel 
caught at the notion, and it spread through the house. Hr. May, 
who just then enme in with his two sons, looked at Harry, saying, 
4 What do you think of it ? Shall we go, my boy ? ’ And Harry, as 
soon as he understood, declared that he should like nothing better. 
It seemed what they all needed ; even Aubrey and Gertrude begged 
to come ; and, when the solemn old Minster was above their heads, 
and the hallowed stillness around them, the tightened sense of 
half-realized joy began to find relief in the chant of glory. The 
voices of the Sanctuary, ever uplifting notes of praise, seemed to 
gather together and soften their emotions; and agitation was 
soothed away, and all that was oppressive and tumultuous gave 
place to sweet peace and thankfulness. Ethel dimly remembered 
,he like sense of relief, when her mother had hushed her wild ecstasy, 
ivhile sympathizing with her joy. Richard could not trust his voice, 
'out Mr. Wilmot offered the special thanksgiving. 

Harry was, indeed, 44 at home,” and his tears fell fast over, his 
oook, as lie heard his father’s 4 Amen,’ so fervent and so deep ; and 


180 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


he gazed up and around, with fond and earnest looks, as thoughts 
and resolutions, formed there of old, came gathering thick upon him. 
And there little Gertrude seemed first to accept him. She whispered 
to her papa, as they stood up to go away, that it was very good in 
God Almighty to have sent Harry home; and, as they left tho 
Cloister, she slipped into Harry’s hand a daisy from the grave, such 
a gift as she had never carried to anyone else, save her father and 
Margaret, and she shrank no longer from being lifted up in his arms, 
and carried home through the twilight street. 

He hurried into the drawing-room, and was heard declaring that 
all was right, for Margaret was on the sofa ; but he stopped short, 
grieved at her altered looks. She smiled as he stooped to kiss her, 
and then made him stand erect, and measure himself against 
Norman, whose height he had almost reached. The little curly 
midshipman had come back, as nurse said, 1 a fine-growed young 
man,' his rosy cheeks, brown and ruddy, and his countenance — 

‘ You arc much more like papa and Norman than I thought you 
would be,’ said Margaret. 

‘ He has left his snub nose, and yellow locks behind,’ said his 
father ; ‘ though the shaggy mane seems to remain. I believe lions 
grow darker with age — So there stand June and July together 
again ? ’ 

Hr. May walked backwards to look at them. It was good to see 
his face ! 

‘ I shall see Flora and Tom to-morrow ! ’ said Harry, after 
nodding with satisfaction, as they all took their wonted places. 

1 Going ! ’ exclaimed Richard. 

* Why, don’t you know,’ said Ethel ; ‘ it is current in the nursery 
that he is going to be tried by court-martial for living with the 
King of the Cannibal islands.’ 

‘ Aubrey says he had a desert island, with Jennings for his man 
Friday,’ said Blanche. 

‘ Harry,’ said little Gertrude, who had established herself on his 
knee, ‘ did you really poke out the giant’s eye with the top of a 
fir-tree ? ’ 

t Who told you so, Daisy ? ’ was the general cry ; but she became 
shy, and would not answer more than by a whisper about Aubrey, 
who indignantly declared that he never said so, only Gertrude was 
so foolish, that she did not know Harry from Ulysses. 

1 After all,’ said Ethel, 1 1 don’t think our notions are much more 
defined. Papa and Norman may know more, but we have heard 
almost nothing. I have been waiting to hear more to close up my 
letters to Flora and Tom. What a shame that has not been done ! ’ 

1 I’ll finish,’ said Mary, running to the side-table. 

‘ And tell her I’ll be there to-morrow,’ said Harry. ‘ I must 
report .myself, and what fun to sec Flora a member of parliament! 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


181 


Come with me, J unc, I’ll be back next day. I wish you all would 
come.’ 

‘Yes, I must come with you,’ said Norman. ‘ I shall have to go 
to Oxford on Thursday — ’ and very reluctant he looked. ‘ Tell 
Flora I am coming, Mary.’ 

‘ How did you know that Flora was a married lady ? ’ asked 
Blanche, in her would-be grown up manner. 

‘ I heard that from aunt Flora. A famous lot of news I picked 
up there ! ’ 

‘ Aunt Flora ! ’ 

‘ Did you not know he had been at Auckland ? ’ said Dr. May. 
‘ Aunt Flora had to nurse him well after all he had undergone. 
Did you not think her very like mamma, Harry ? ’ 

‘ Mamma never looked half so old ! ’ cried Harry, indignantly. 

‘ Flora was five years younger ! ’ 

‘ She has got her voice and way with her,’ said Harry; ‘ but you 
will soon see. She is coming home soon.’ 

There was a great outcry of delight. 

‘ Yes, there is some money of uncle Arnott’s that must be looked 
after, but he does not like the voyage, and can’t leave his office, so 
perhaps Aunt Flora may come alone. She had a great mind to 
jome with me, but there was no good berth for her in this schooner, 
and I could not wait for another chance. I can’t think what pos- 
sessed the letters not to come ! She would not write by the first 
packet, because I was so ill, but we both wrote by the next, and I 
made sure you had them, or I would have written before I came.’ 

The words were not out of his mouth, before the second post 
was brought in, and there were two letters from New Zealand! 
What would they not have been yesterday ? Harry would have 
burnt his own, but the long closely- written sheets were eagerly 
seized, as afibrding the best hope of understanding his adventures, 
as it had been written at intervals from Auckland, and the papers, 
passing from one to the other, formed the text for interrogations on 
further details, though much more was gleaned incidentally in tete 
a tetes , by Margaret, Norman, or his father, and no one person ever 
heard the whole connectedly from Harry himself. 

‘ What was the first you knew of the fire, Harry ? ’ asked Dr. May, 
looking up from the letter. 

‘ Owen shaking me awake; and I thought it was a hoax,’ said 
Harry. ‘ But it was true enough, and when we got on deck, there 
were clouds of smoke coming up the main hatch-way.’ 

Margaret’s eyes were upon him, and her lips formed the question, 
And he ? ’ 

‘ He met us, and told us to be steady — but there was little need 
for that ! Every man there was as cool and collected as if it had 
been no more than the cook’s stove, and we should have scorned to 


182 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


be otherwise ! Ho put his hand on my shoulder and said, “ Keep 
me,” and I did.’ 

1 Then there was never much hope of extinguishing the fire ? ’ 

‘ No — if you looked down below .the forecastle it was like a 
furnace, and though the pumps were at work, it was only to gain 
time while the boats were lowered. The First Lieutenant told off 
the men, and they went down the side without one word, only 
shaking hands with those that were left.’ 

1 Oh ! Harry ! what were you thinking ftf ? ’ cried Blanche. 

6 Of the powder,’ said Harry. 

Ethel thought there was more in that answer than met the ear, 
and that Harry, at least, had thought of the powder to-night at 
Church. 

1 Mr. Ernescliffe had the command of the second cutter. He 
asked to take me with him, I was glad enough, and Owen — he is a 
mate, you know — went with us.’ 

As to telling how he felt when he saw the good ship Alcestis 
blown to fragments, that was past Harry, and all but Blanche were 
wise enough not to ask. She had by way of answer, 1 Very glad to 
be safe out of her.’ 

Nor was Harry willing to dwell on the subsequent days, when 
the unclouded sun had been a cruel foe : and the insufficient stores 
of food and water, did, indeed, sustain life, but a life of extreme 
suffering. What he told was of the kindness that strove to save 
him, as the youngest, from all that could be spared him. 1 If I 
dropped asleep at the bottom of the boat, I was sure to find some 
one shading me from the sun. If there was an extra drop of water, 
they wanted me to have it.’ 

4 Tell me their names, Harry ! ’ cried Dr. May. ‘ If ever I 
meet one of them ! ’ 

4 But the storm, Harry, the storm ? ’ asked Blanche. ‘ Was 
that not terrible ? ’ 

1 Very comfortable at first, Blanche,’ was the answer. ‘Oh! 
tli at rain ! ’ 

4 But when it grew so very bad ? ’ 

4 We did not reck much what happened to us,’ said Harry. 4 It 
could not be worse than starving. When we missed the others in 
the morning, 'most of us thought them the best off.’ 

Mary could not help coming round to kiss him, as if eyes alone 
were not enough to satisfy her that here he was. 

Dr. May shuddered, and went on reading, and Margaret drew 
Harry down to her, and once more by looks, craved for more minute 
tidings. 

‘ All that you can think,’ murmured Harry ; c the very life and 
soul of us all — so kind, and yet discipline as perfect as on board. 
But don’t now, Margaret — ’ 

The tone of the don't , the reddening cheek, liquid eye, and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 183 

heaving chest, told enough of what the Lieutenant had been to one 
at least, of the desolate boat’s crew. 

‘ Oh ! Harry, Harry ! I can’t bear it,’ exclaimed Mary. 4 How 
long did it last ? How did it end ? ’ 

‘ Fifteen days,’ said Harry. 4 It was time it should end, for all 
the water we had caught in the storm, was gone — we gave the last 
drop to J ones, for we thought him dying — one’s tongue was like a 
dry sponge.’ 

*’ How did it end ? ’ repeated Mary, in an agony. 

4 J ennings saw a sail. We thought it all a fancy of weakness, 
but ’twas true enough, and they saw our signal of distress ! ’ 

The vessel proved to be an American whaler, which had just 
parted with her cargo to a homeward bound ship, and was going to 
refit, and take in provisions and water at one of the Milanesian 
islands, before returning for further captures. The master was a 
man of the shrewd, hard money-ihaking cast ; but, at the price of 
Mr. ErnesclifFe’s chronometer, and of the services of the sailors, he 
undertook to convey them where they might fall in with packets 
bound for Australia. 

The distressed Alcestes at first thought themselves in paradise, 
but the vessel, built with no view, save to whales, and, with a con- 
siderable reminiscence of the blubber lately parted with, proved no 
wholesome abode, when overcrowded, and in the tropics! Mr. 
ErnesclifFe’s science, resolution, and constancy, had saved his men 
so far ; but with the need for exertion, his powers gave way, and he 
fell a prey to a return of the fever, which had been his introduction 
to Dr. May. 

4 There he was,’ said Harry, 4 laid up in a little bit of a stifling 
cabin, just like an oven ; without the possibility of a breath of air ! 
The skin-flint clipper carried no medicine; the water, shocking 
stuff it was, was getting so low, that there was only a pint a day 
served out to each, and though all of us Alcestes clubbed every 
drop we could spare for him — it was bad work ! Owen and I never 
were more glad in our lives then when we heard we were to cast 
anchor at the Loyalty isles ! Such a place as it was ! You little 
know what it was to see anything green ! And there was this isle 
fringed down close to the sea with coeoa-nut trees ! and the bay as 
c ] ear | — you could see every shell, and wonderful fishes swimming 
in it! Well, everyone was for going ashore, and some of the 
natives swam out to us, and brought things in their canoes, but not 
many ; it is not encouraged by the mission, nor by David — for those 
Yankee traders are not the most edifying society — and the crew 
vowed they were cannibals, and had eaten a man three years ago, 
so they all went ashore armed.’ 

4 You staid with him,’ said Margaret. 

4 Aye, it was my turn, and I was glad enough to have some fresh 
fruit and water for him, but he could not take any notice of it. 


184 : 


TTIE DAISY CHAIN. 


Did not I want you, papa? Well, by-and-by, Owen came back, in 
a perfect rapture with the place and the people, and said it was tho 
only hope for Mr. Ernescliffe, to take him on shore — ’ 

‘ Then you did really go amongst the cannibals ! 5 exclaimed 
Blanche. 

* That is all nonsense,’ said Harry. 1 Some of them may once 
have been, and I fancy the heathens might not mind a bit of u long 
pig ” still ; but these have been converted by the Samoans.’ 

The Samoans, it was further explained, are the inhabitants of 
the Navigator islands, who, having been converted by the Church 
Missionary Society, have sent out great number* of most active and 
admirable teachers among the scattered islands, t raving martyrdom 
and disease, never shrinking from their work, and, by teaching and 
example, preparing the way for fuller doctrine than they can yet 
impart. A station of these devoted men had for some years been 
settled in this island, and had since been visited by the missions of 
Newcastle, and New Zealand. The young chief, whom Harry 
called David, and another youth, had spent two summers under in- 
struction at New Zealand, and had been baptized. They were 
spending the colder part of the year at home, and hoped shortly to 
be called for by the mission-ship to return, and resume their course 
of instruction. 

Owen had come to an understanding with the chief, and the 
Samoans, and had decided on landing his Lieutenant, and it was 
accordingly done, with very little consciousness, on the patient’s 
part. Black figures, with woolly mop-heads, and sometimes deco- 
rated with whitewash of lime, crowded round to assist in the trans- 
port of the sick man through the serf; and David himself, in a 
white European garb, met his guests, with dignified manners that 
would have suited a prince of any land, and conducted them through 
the grove of palms, interspersed with white huts, to a beautiful house 
consisting of a central room, with many others opening from it, 
floored with white coral lime, and lined with soft shining mats of 
Samoan manufacture. This, Harry learnt, had been erected by them 
in hopes of an English Missionary taking up his abode amongst them. 

They were L kindly people, and had shown hospitality to other 
Englishmen, who had less appreciated it than these young officers 
could. They lavished every kindness in their power upon them, 
and Mr. Ernescliffe, at first, revived so much, that he seemed likely 
to recover. 

But the ship had completed her repairs, and was ready to sail. 
The two midshipmen thought it would be certain death to their 
Lieutenant to bring him back to such an atmosphere ; “ and so,” 
continued Harry’s letter to his father, “ I thought there was 
nothing for it, but for me to stay with him, and that you would say 
so. I got Owen to consent, after some trouble, as we were sure tc 
be fetched off one time or another. We said not a word to Mr. 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


185 


Ernescliffe, for lie was only sensible now and then, so that Owen 
had the command. Owen made the skipper leave me a pistol and 
some powder, but I was ashamed David should know it, and stowed 
it away. As to the quarter-master, old Jennings, whose boy you 
remember we picked up at the Roman camp, he had not forgotten 
that, and when we were shaking hands and wishing good-bye, he 
leapt up and vowed ‘ he would never leave the young gentleman 
that had befriended his boy, to be eaten up by them black savage 
niggers. If they made roust-pork of Mr. May, he would be eaten 
first, though he reckoned they would find him a tougher morsel.’ 
I don’t think Owen was sorry he volunteered, and no words can 
tell what a blessing the good old fellow was to us both. 

“ So there we staid, and, at first, Mr. Ernescliffe seemed mend- 
ing. The delirium went off, he could talk quite clearly and com- 
fortably, and he used to lie listening, when David and I had our odd 
sort of talks. I believe, if you had been there, or we could have 
strengthened him any way, he might have got over it ; but he never 
thought he should, and he used to talk to me about all of you, and 
said Stoneborough had been the most blessed spot in his life ; he 
had never had so much of a home, and that sharing our grief, and 
knowing you, had done him great good, just when he might have 
been getting elated. I cannot recollect it all, though I tried hard, 
for Margaret’s sake, but he said Hector would have a great deal of 
temptation, and he hoped you would be a father to him, and Nor- 
man an elder brother. You would not think how much he talked 
of Cocksmoor, about a Church being built there, as Ethel wished, 
and little Daisy laying the first stone. I remember one night, I 
don’t know whether he was quite himself, for he looked full at me 
with his eyes, that had grown so large, till I did not know what was 
coming, and he said, 1 1 have seen a ship built by a sailor’s vow ; 
the roof was like the timbers of a ship — that was right. Mind, it 
is so. That is the ship that bears through the waves ; there is the 
anchor that enters within the veil.’ I believe that was what he 
said. I could not forget that — he looked at me so ; but much more 
he said, that I dimly remember, and chiefly about poor dear Mar- 
garet. He bade me tell her — his own precious pearl, as he used to 
call her — that he was quite content, and believed it was best for 
her and him both, that all should be thus settled, for they did not 
part for ever, and he trusted — but I can’t write all that.” (There 
was a great tear-blot just here). “ It is too good to recollect any- 
where but at Church. I have been there to-day, with my uncle 
and aunt, and I thought I could have told it when I came home, 
but I was too tired to write then, and now I don’t seem as if it 
could be written anyhow. When I come home, I will try to tell 
Margaret. The most part was about her; only what was better 
seemed to swallow that up.” 

The narrative broke off here, but had been subsequently resumed. 


186 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


“ For all Mr. Ernescliffe talked as I told you, lie was so quiet and 
happy, that I made sure he was getting well, but Jennings did not, 
and there came an old heathen native once to see us, who asked why 
we did not bury him alive, because he got no better, and gave trouble. 
At last, one night — it was the third of August — he was very restless, 
and could not breathe, nor lie easily; I lifted him up in my arms, 
for he was very light and thin, and tried to make him more com- 
fortable. But presently he said, 1 Is it you, Harry ? God bless 
you; ’ and, in a minute, I knew he was dead. You will tell Mar- 
garet all about it. I don’t think she can love him more than I 
did ; and she did not half know him, for she never saw him on 
board, nor in all that dreadful time, nor in. his illness. She will 
never know what she has lost.” 

There was another break here, and the story was continued. 

“We buried him the next day, where one could see the sea, 
close under the great palm, where David hopes to have a Church 
one of these days. David helped us, and said the Lord’s Prayer 
and the Glory with us there. I little thought, when I used to 
grumble at my two verses of the Psalms every day, when I should 
want the ninetieth, or how glad I should be to know so many by 
heart, for they were such a comfort to Mr. Ernescliffe. 

“ David got us a nice bit of wood, and Jennings carved the Cross, 
and his name, and all about him. I should have liked to have 
done it, but I knocked up after that. Jennings thinks I had 
a sun-stroke. I don’t know, but my head was so bad, when- 
ever I moved, that I thought only Jennings would ever have 
come to tell you about it. J ennings looked after me as if I had 
been his own son ; and there was David too, as kind as if he had 
been Bichard himself — always sitting by, to bathe my forehead, or, 
when I was a little better, to talk to me, and ask me questions 
about his Christian teaching. You must not think of him like a 
savage, for he is my friend, and a far more perfect gentleman than 
I ever saw anyone, but you, papa, holding the command over his 
people so easily and courteously, and then coming to me with little 
easy first questions about the Belief, and such things, like what 
we used to ask mamma. He liked nothing so well as for me 
to tell him about King David; and we had learnt a good deal 

of each other’s languages by that time. The notion of his heart 

like Cocksmoor to Ethel — is, to get a real English mission, and 
have all his people Christians. Ethel talked of good kings being 
Davids to their line ; I think that is what he will be, if he lives ; 
but those islanders have been dying off since Europeans came among 
them.” 

But Harry’s letter could not tell what he confessed, one night, 
to his father the next time he was out with him by star-light, 
how desolate he had been, and how he had yearned after his ho^ie, 
and, one evening, he had been utterly overcome by illness and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


187 


loneliness, and had cried most bitterly and uncontrollably , and, 
though J ennings thought it was for his friend’s death, it realiy was 
homesickness, and the thought of his father and Mary. Jennings 
had helped him out to the entrance of the hut, that the cool night 
air might refresh his burning brow. Orion shone clear and bright, 
and brought back the night when they had chosen the starry hunter 
as his friend. ‘ It seemed,’ he said, 1 as if you all were looking 
at me, and smiling to me in the stars. And there was the Southern 
Cross upright, which was like the Minster to me ; and I recollected 
it was Sunday morning at home, and knew you would be thinking 
about me. I was so glad you had let me be Confirmed, and be with 
you that last Sunday, papa, for it seemed to join me on so much the 
more; and when I thought of the words in Church, they seemed, 
somehow, to float on me so much more than ever before, and it was 
like the Minster, and your voice. I should not have minded dying 
so much after that.’ 

At last, Harry’s Black Prince had hurried into the hut with 
the tidings that his English father’s ship was in the bay, and soon 
English voices again sounded in his ears, bringing the forlorn 
boy such warmth of kindness that he could hardly believe him- 
self a mere stranger. If Alan could but have shared the joy with 
him ! 

He was carried down to the boat in the cool of the evening, 
and paused on the way, for a last farewell to the lonely grave under 
the palm tree — one of the many sailors’ graves scattered from the 
tropics to the poles, and which might be the first seed in a 1 God’s 
acre ’ to that island, becoming what the graves of holy men of old 
are to us. 

A short space more of kind care from his new friends, and his 
Christian Chief, and Harry awoke from a feverish doze at sounds 
that seemed so like a dream of home, that he was unwilling to break 
them by rousing himself, but they approved themselves as real, and 
he found himself in the embrace of his mother’s sister. 

And here Mrs. Arnott’s story began, of the note that reached 
her in the early morning with tidings that her nephew had been 
picked up by the mission-ship, and how she and her husband had 
hastened, at once, on board. 

1 They sent me below to see a hero,’ she wrote. ‘ What I saw 
was, a scarecrow sort of likeness of you, dear Richard ; but, when 
he opened his eyes, there was our Maggie smiling at me. I suppose 
he would not forgive me for telling how he sobbed and cried, when 
he had his arms round my neck, and his poor aching head on my 
shoulder. Poor fellow, he was very weak, and I believe he felt, for 
the moment, as if he had found his mother. 

‘ We brought him home with us, but when the next mail went, 
the fever was still so high, that I thought it would be only alarm tj 


188 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


you to write, and I had not half a story either, though you mai 
guess how proud I was of my nephew.’ 

Harry’s troubles were all over from that time. He had thence- 
forth to recover under his aunt’s motherly care, while talking end- 
lessly over the home that she loved almost as well as he did. H6 
was well more quickly than she had ventured to hope, and nothing 
could check his impatience to reach his home, not even the hopes of 
having his aunt for a companion. The very happiness he enjoyed 
with her only made him long the more ardently to he with his own 
family ; and he' had taken his leave of her, and of his dear David 
and sailed by the first packet leaving Auckland. 

* I never knew what the old Great Bear was to me till I saw 
him again ! ’ said Harry. 

It was late when the elders had finished all that was to be heard 
at present, and the clock reminded them that they must part. 

‘ And you must go to-morrow ? ’ sighed Margaret. 

1 1 must. Jennings has to go on to Portsmouth, and see after 
his son.’ 

‘ O, let me<eee Jennings ! ’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘ May I not, 
papa ? ’ 

Richard, who had been making friends with Jennings, whenever 
he had not been needed by his sisters that afternoon, went to fetch 
him from the kitchen, where all the servants, and all their particular 
friends, were listening to the yarn that made them hold their heads 
higher, as belonging to Master Harry. 

Harry stepped forward, met Jennings, and said, aside, ‘ My 
sister, Jennings ; my sister that you have heard of.’ 

Dr. May had already seen the sailor, but he could not help ad- 
dressing him again. ‘ Come in ; come in, and see my boy among 
us all. Without you, we never should have had him.’ 

‘ Make him come to me,’ said Margaret, breathlessly, as the 
embarrassed sailor stood, sleeking down his hair ; and, when he had 
advanced to her couch, she looked up in his face, and put her hand 
into his great brown one. 

1 1 could not help saying thank you,’ she said. 

‘ Mr. May, sir ! ’ cried Jennings, almost crying, and looking 
round for Harry, as a sort of protector — ‘ tell them, sir, please, it 
was only my duty — I could not do no less, and you knows it, sir,’ 
as if Harry had been making an accusation against him. 

‘We know you could not,’ said Margaret, ‘ and that is what we 

would thank you for, if we could. I know he — Mr. Ernescliffe 

must have been much more at rest for leaving my brother with so 
kind a friend, and — ’ 

‘ Please, miss, don’t say no more about it. Mr. Ernescliffe was 
as fine an officer as ever stepped a quarter-deck, and Mr. May here 
won’t fall short of him ; and was I to be after leaving the like of 
them to the mercy of the black fellows — that was not so bad, neither ? 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


189 


If it had only pleased God that we had brought them both back to 
you, miss ; but, you see, a man can’t be everything at once, and Mr 
Ernescliffe was not so stout as his heart.’ 

‘ You did everything, we know — ’ began Dr. May. 

‘ ’Twas a real pleasure,’ said J ennings, hastily, ‘ for two such 
real gentlemen as they was. Mr. May, sir, I beg your pardon if I 
say it to your face, never flinched, nor spoke a word of complaint, 
through it all ; and as to the other — ’ 

* Margaret cannot bear this,’ said Richard, coming near. ‘ It 
is too much.’ 

The sailor shook his head, and was retreating, but Margaret 
signed him to come near again, and grasped his hand. Harry 
followed him out of the room, to arrange their journey, and presently 
returned. 

1 He says he is glad he has seen Margaret, he says she is the 
right sort of stuff for Mr. Ernescliffe.’ 

Harry had not intended Margaret to hear, but she caught the 
words, smiled radiantly, and whispered, 1 1 wish I may be ! ’ 


CHAPTER XVI II. 

Margaret had borne the meeting much too well for her own 
good, and a wakeful night of palpitation was the consequence ; 
but she would not allow anyone to take it to heart, and declared 
that she should be ready to enjoy Harry by the time he should re- 
turn, and meantime she should dwell on, the delight of his meeting 
Flora. 

No one had rested too soundly that night, and Dr. May had not 
been able to help looking in at his sleeping boy at five in the morn- 
ing, to certify himself that he had not only figured his present bliss 
to himself, in his ten minutes’ dream. And looking in again at 
half-past seven, he found Harry half-dressed, with his arm round 
Mary , laughing, almost sobbing, over the treasures in his cupboard, 
which he had newly discovered in their fresh order. 

Dr. May looked like a new man that morning, with his bright- 
ened eye and bearing, as if there were a well-spring of joy within 
him, ready to brim over at once in tear and in smile, and finding 
an outlet in the praise and thanksgiving that his spirit chanted, and 
his face expressed, and in that sunny genial benevolence that must 
make all share his joy. 

He was going to run over half the town — everyone would like 
to hear it from him ; Ethel and Mary must go to the rest — the old 
women in the almshouses, where lived an old cook who used to be 
fond of Harry — they should have a feast — all who were well enough 


190 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


in the hospital should have a tea-drinking — Dr, Hoxton had already 
granted a holiday to the school ; every boy with whom they had 
any connection should come to dinner, and Edward Anderson should 
be asked to meet Harry on his return, because, poor fellow, he was 
so improved. 

Dr. May was in such a transport of kind-hearted schemes, that 
he was not easily made to hear that Harry had not a sixpence 
wherewith to reach London. 

Ethel, meanwhile, was standing beside her brother tendering to 
him some gold, as his last quarter. 

1 How did you get it, Ethel ? do you keep the purse ? ’ 

‘ No, but papa took Cocksmoor in your stead, when — ’ 

• 1 Nonsense, Ethel,’ said Harry ; ‘ I don’t want it. Have I not 
all my pay and allowance for the whole time I was dead ? And as 
to robbing Cocksmoor — ’ 

‘ Yes, keep it, Ethel,’ said her father, 1 do you think I would 
take it now , when if there were a thankoffering in the world ! — 
And, by-the-by, your Cocksmoor children must have something to 
remember this by — ’ 

Everyone could have envied Norman, for travelling to London 
with Harry, but that he must proceed to Oxford in two days, when 
Harry would return to them. The station-master, thinking he 
could not do enough for the returned mariner, put the two brothers 
into the coupe , as if they had been a bridal couple, and they were 
very glad of the privacy, having, as yet, hardly spoken to each 
other, when Harry’s attention was dispersed among so many. 

Norman asked many questions about the mission work in the 
southern hemisphere, and ended by telling his brother of his design, 
which met with Harry’s hearty approbation. 

‘ That’s right, old June. There’s nothing they want so much, 
as such as you. How glad my aunt will be ! Perhaps you will see 
David ! Oh ! if you were to go out to the Loyalty group ! ’ 

1 Very possibly I might,’ said Norman. 

‘ Tell them you are my brother, and how they will receive you. 
I can see the mop heads they will dress in honour of you, and what 
a feast of pork and yams you will have to eat ! But there is plenty 
of work among the Maoris for you — they want a Clergyman terri- 
bly at the next village to my uncle’s place. I say, Norman, it will 
go hard if I don’t get a ship bound for the Pacific, and come and 
see you.’ 

‘ I shall reckon on you. That is, if I have not to stay to help my 
father.’ 

‘ To be sure,’ exclaimed Harry ; £ I thought you would have 
staid at home, and married little Miss Rivers ! ’ 

Thus broadly and boyishly did he plunge into that most tender 
subject, making his brother start and wince, as if he had touched 
a wound. 


THE DAISY CHAIN*. 


191 


‘ Nonsense ! ’ he cried, almost angrily. 

‘Well ! you used to seem very much smitten, hut so, to be 
sure, were some of the Alcestes with the young ladies at Valpa- 
raiso. How we used to roast Owen about that Spanish Donna, 
and he was as bad at Sydney about the young lady, whose father, 
we told him, was a convict, though he kept such a swell carriage. 
He had no peace about his father-in-law, the house-breaker ! 
Don’t I remember how you pinched her hand the night you were 
righted ! ’ 

‘ You know nothing about it,’ said Norman, shortly. ‘ She is 
far beyond my reach.’ 

‘ A fine lady ? Ha ? Well, I should have thought you as good 
as Flora, any day,’ said Harry, indignantly. 

‘ She is what she always was,’ said Norman, anxious to silence 
him ; ‘ but it is unreasonable to think of it. She is all but engaged 
to Sir Henry Walkinghame.’ 

‘ Walkinghame ! ’ cried the volatile sailor. ‘ I have half a 
mind to send in my name to Flora as Miss Walkinghame ! ’ 
and he laughed heartily over that adventure, ending, however, 
with a sigh, as he said, ‘ It had nearly cost me a great deal ! 
Hut tell me, Norman, how has that Meta, as they called her, 
turned out ? I never saw anything prettier or nicer than she was 
that day of the Homan encampment, and I should be sorry if 
that fine fashionable aunt of hers, had made her stuck-up and dis- 
dainful.’ 

1 No such thing,’ said Norman. 

Ha ! said Harry to himself, I see how it is ! She has gone 
and made poor old June unhappy, with her scornful airs — a little 
impertinent puss ! — I wonder Flora does not teach her better man- 
ners. 

Norman, meanwhile, as the train sped over roofs, and among 
chimneys, was reproaching himself for running into the fascination 
of her presence, and then recollecting that her situation, as well as 
his destiny, both guaranteed that they could meet only as friendly 
connections. 

No carriage awaited them at the station, which surprised Nor- 
man, till he recollected that the horses had probably been out all 
day, and it was eight o’clock. Going to Park Lane in a cab, the 
brothers were further surprised to find themselves evidently not ex- 
pected. The butler came to speak to them, saying that Mr. and 
Mrs. Kivers were gone out to dinner, but would return, probably, 
at about eleven o’clock. He conducted them up-stairs, Harry fol- 
lowing his brother, in towering vexation and disappointment, trying 
to make him turn to hear that they would go directly — home — -to 
Eton — anywhere — why would he go in at all ? 

The door was opened, Mr. May was announced, and thej were 
22 


192 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


in a silk-lined boudoir , where a little slender figure in black started 
up, and came forward with outstretched hand. 

‘ Norman ! ’ she cried, ‘ how are you ? Are you come on your 
way to Oxford ? ’ 

£ Has not Flora had Mary’s letter ? ’ 

1 Yes, she said she had one. She was keeping it till she had 
time to read it.’ 

As she spoke, Meta had given her hand to Harry, as it was 
evidently expected ; she raised her eyes to his face, and said, smil- 
ing, and blushing, £ I am sure I ought to know you, but I am afraid 
I don’t.’ 

‘ Look again,’ said Norman. ‘ See if you have ever seen him 
before.’ 

Laughing, glancing, and casting down her eyes, she raised them 
with a sudden start of joy, but colouring more deeply, said, ‘ In- 
deed, I cannot remember. I dare say I ought.’ 

‘ I think you see a likeness,’ said Norman. 

‘ 0 yes, I see,’ she answered, faltering ; but perceiving how 
bright were the looks of both, * No ? Impossible ! Yes it is ! ’ 

‘ Yes, it is,’ said both brothers with one voice. 

She clasped her hands, and absolutely bounded with transport, 
then grasped both Harry’s hands, and then Norman’s, her whole 
countenance radiant with joy and sympathy beyond expression. 

‘ Hear, dear Hr. May ! ’ was her first exclamation. 1 Oh ! how 
happy you must all be ! And Margaret ? ’ She looked up at Nor- 
man, and came nearer. ‘ Is not Mr. Ernescliffe come ? ’ she asked 
softly, and trembling. 

‘ No,’ was the low answer, which Harry could not bear to hear, 
and therefore walked to the window. ‘ No, Meta, but Margaret is 
much comforted about him. He died in great peace — in his arms — ’ 
as he signed towards his brother. And as Harry continued to gaze 
out on the stars of gas on the opposite side of the park, he was able 
to add a few of the particulars. 

Meta’s eyes glistened with tears, as she said, ‘ Perhaps it would 
have been too perfect if he had come; but oh, Norman ! how good 
she is to bear it so patiently ! And - how gloriously he behaved ! 
How can we make enough of him ! And Flora out ! how sorry she 
will be 1 ’ 

1 And she never opened Mary’s letter,’ said Harry, coming back 
to them. 

‘ She little thought what it contained,’ said Meta. 1 Mary’s 
letters are apt to bear keeping, you know, and she was so busy, that 
she laid it aside for a treat after the day’s work. But there ! in- 
hospitable wretch that I am ! you have had no dinner ! ’ 

A refection of tea and cold meat was preferred, and in her own 
pretty manner, Meta lavished her welcomes, trying to cover any 
pain given by Flora’s neglect. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


193 


1 What makes her so busy ? ’ asked Harry, looking round on the 
beautifully furnished apartment, which, to many eyes besides those 
fresh from a Milanesian hut, might have seemed a paradise of lux- 
urious ease. 

‘ You don’t know what an important lady you have for a sister,’ 
said Meta, merrily. 

‘ But tell me, what can she have to do ? I thought you London 
ladies had nothing to do, but to sit with your hands before you en- 
tertaining company.’ 

Meta laughed heartily. ‘ Shall I begin at the beginning ? I’ll 
describe to-day then, and you must understand that this is what 
Tom would call a mild specimen — only one evening engagement. 
Though, perhaps, I ought to start from last night at twelve o’clock, 
when she was at the Austrian Ambassador’s ball, and came home at 
two, but she was up by eight — she always manages to get through 
her housekeeping matters before breakfast. At nine, breakfast, and 
baby — by-the-by, you have never inquired for our niece.’ 

; I have not come to believe in her yet,’ said Harry. 

1 Seeing is believing,’ said Meta ; ‘ but no, I won’t take an un- 
fair advantage over her mamma — and she will be fast asleep — I 
never knew a child sleep as she does. So to go on with our day. 
The papers come, and Miss Leonora is given over to me ; for you 
must know we are wonderful politicians. Flora studies all the de- 
bates till George finds out what he has heard in the House, and 
baby and I profit. Baby goes out walking, and the post comes. 
Flora always goes to the study with George, and writes, and does 
all sorts of things for him. She is the most useful wife in the 
world. At twelve, we had our singing lesson — ’ 

‘ Singing lesson ! ’ exclaimed Harry. 

• Yes, you know she has a pretty voice, and she is glad to culti- 
vate it. It is very useful at parties, but it takes up a great deal of 
time, and with all I can do to save her in note writing, the morning 
is gone directly. After luncheon, she had a ride with George, and 
came back in a hurry to make some canvassing calls about the 
orphan asylum, and Miss Bracy’s sister. If we get her in at all, it 
will be Flora’s diplomacy. And there was shopping to do, and when 
we came in hoping for time for our letters, there were the Walking- 
hames, who staid a long time, so that Flora could only despatch the 
most important notes, before George came in and wanted her. She 
was reading something for him all the time she was dressing, but, 
as I say, this is quite a quiet day.’ 

‘ Stop ! ’ cried Harry, with a gesture of oppression, c it sounds 
harder than cleaning knives, like aunt Flora ! And what is an 
unquiet day like ? ’ 

< You will see, for we have a great evening party to-moirow.’ 

‘ Bo you always stay at home ? ’ asked Harry. 

‘Not always, but I do not go to large parties or balls this year, 1 


194 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


said Metta, glancing at her deep mourning, — 1 1 am very glad of a 
little time at home.’ 

So you don’t like it.’ 

1 Oh yes ! it is very pleasant,’ said Meta. ‘ It is so entertaining 
when we talk it over afterwards, and I like to hear how Flora is ad- 
mired, and called the beauty of the season. I tell George, and we 
do so gloat over it together ! There was an old French Marquis 
the other night, a dear old man, quite of the ancien regime , who 
said she was exactly like the portraits of Madame de Maintenon, 
and produced a beautiful miniature on a snuff-box, positively like 
that very pretty form of face of hers. The old man even declared 
that Mistress Fivers was worthy to be a Frenchwoman.’ 

‘ I should like to kick him ! ’ amiably responded Harry. 

* I hope you won’t to-morrow ! But don’t let us waste our time 
over this ; I want so much to hear about New Zealand.’ 

Meta was well read in Australasian literature, and drew out a 
great deal more information from Harry, than Norman had yet 
heard. She made him talk about the Maori pah near his uncle’s 
farm, where the Sunday Services were conducted by an old gentle- 
man tattooed elegantly in the face, but dressed like an English 
Clergyman ; and tell of his aunt’s troubles about the younger gene- 
ration, whom their elders, though Christians themselves, could not 
educate, and who she feared would relapse into heathenism, for want 
of instruction, though with excellent dispositions. 

1 How glad you must be that you are likely to go ! ’ exclaimed 
Meta to Norman, who had sat silently listening. 

The sound of the door bell was the first intimation that Harry’s 
histories had occupied them until long past twelve o’clock. 

1 Now then !’ cried Meta, springing forward as if intending to 
meet Flora with the tidings, but checking herself, as if she ought 
not to be the first. There was a pause. Flora was hearing down- 
stairs that Mr. Norman May and another gentleman had arrived, 
and, while vexed at her own omission, and annoyed at Norman’s 
bringing friends without waiting for permission, she was yet pre- 
pared to be courteous and amiable. She entered, in her rich black 
watered silk, deeply trimmed with lace, and with silver ornaments 
in her dark hair, so graceful and distinguished looking, that Harry 
stood suspended, hesitating, for an instant, whether he beheld his 
own sister, especially as she made a dignified inclination towards 
him, offering her hand to Norman, as she said, ‘ Meta has told 
you — ’ but there she broke off, exclaiming, ‘ Ha ! is it possible ! 
No, surely it cannot be — ’ 

‘ Miss Walkinghame ? ’ said the sailor, who had felt at homo 
with her at the first word, and she flew into his great rough arms. 

‘ Harry ! this is dear Harry ! our own dear sailor came back,’ 
cried she, as her husband stood astonished ; and, springing towards 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 195 

him, she put Harry’s hand into his, 1 My brother Harry ! our dear 
lost one.’ 

‘ Your — brother — Harry,’ slowly pronounced George, as he in- 
stinctively gave the grasp of greeting — 1 your brother that was lost ? 
Upon my word,’ as the matter dawned fully on him, and he became 
eager, ‘ I am very glad to see you. I never was more rejoiced in 
my life.’ 

‘ When did you come ? Have you been at home ? ’ asked 
Flora. 

‘ I came home yesterday — Mary wrote to tell you.’ 

‘ Poor dear old Mary ! There’s a lesson against taking a letter 
on trust. I thought it would be all Cocksmoor, and would wait for 
a quiet moment ! How good to come to me so soon, you dear 
old shipwrecked mariner.’ 

‘ I was forced to come to report myself,’ said Harry, £ or I could 
not have come away from my father so soon.’ • 

The usual questions and their sad answers ensued, and while 
Flora talked to Harry, fondly holding his hand, Norman and Meta 
explained the history to George, who no sooner comprehended it, 
than he opined it must have been a horrid nuisance, and that Harry 
was a gallant fellow ; then striking him over the shoulder, wel- 
comed him home with all his kind heart, told him he was proud to 
receive him, and falling into a state of rapturous hospitality, rang 
the bell, and wanted to order all sorts of eatables and drinkables, 
but was sadly baffled to find him already satisfied. 

There was more open joy than even at home, and Flora was 
supremely happy as she sat between her brothers, listening and 
enquiring till far past one o’clock, when she perceived poor George 
dozing off, awakened every now and then by a great nod, and cast- 
ing a wishful glance of resigned remonstrance, as if to appeal against 
sitting up all night. 

The meeting at breakfast was a renewal of pleasure. Flora was 
proud and happy in showing off her little girl, a model baby, as she 
called her, a perfect doll for quietness, so that she could be brought 
in at Family Prayers; 1 and,’ said Flora, 1 1 am the more glad that 
she keeps no one away, because we can only have Evening Prayers 
on Sunday. It is a serious thing to arrange for such a household.’ 

I She is equal to anything,’ said George. 

The long file of servants marched in, George read sonorously, 
and Flora rose from her knees, highly satisfied at the impression 
produced upon her brothers. 

I I like to have the baby with us at breakfast,’ she said; £ it is 
the only time of day when we can be sure of seeing anything of 
her, and I like her nurse to have some respite. Do you think her 
grown, Norman ? ’ 

1 Not very much,’ said Norman, who thought her more inanimate 


196 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and like a pretty little waxen toy, than when he had last Been her 
4 Is she not rather pale ? ’ 

4 London makes children pale. I shall soon take her home to 
acquire a little colour. You must know Sir Henry has bitten us 
with his yachting tastes, and as soon as we can leave London, we 
are going to spend six weeks with the Walkinghames at llyde, and 
rival you, Harry. I think Miss Leonora will be better at home, 
so we must leave her there. Lodgings and irregularities don’t suit 
people of her age.’ 

4 Does home mean Stoneborough ? ’ asked Norman. 

4 No. Old nurse has one of her deadly prejudices against Preston, 
and I would not be responsible for the consequences of shutting 
them up in the same nursery. Margaret would be distracted be- 
tween them. No, Miss, you shall make her a visit every day, and 
be fondled by your Grandpapa.’ 

George began a conversation with Harry on nautical matters, and 
Norman tried to discover how Meta liked the yachting project, and 
found her prepared to think it charming. Hopes were expressed that 
Harry might be at Portsmouth, and a quantity of gay scheming en- 
sued, with reiterations of the name of W alkinghame, while Norman 
had a sense of being wrapped in some grey mist, excluding him from 
participation in their enjoyments, and condemned his own temper, 
as frivolous, for being thus excited to discontent. 

Presently, he heard George insisting that he and Harry should 
return in time for the evening party ; and, on beginning to refuse, 
was amazed to find Harry’s only objection was on the score of lack 
of uniform. 

4 1 don’t want you in one, sir,’ said Flora. 

4 I have only one coat in the world, besides this,’ continued Harry, 
4 and that is all over tar.’ 

4 George will see to that,’ said Flora. 4 Don’t you think you 
would be welcome in matting, with an orange cowry round your neck ? ’ 

Norman, however, took a private opportunity of asking Harry 
if he was aware of what he was undertaking, and what kind of 
people they should meet. 

4 All English people behave much the same in a room,’ said 
Harry, as if all society, provided it was not cannibal, were alike to 
him. 

4 1 should have thought you would prefer finding out Forder in 
his chambers, or going to one of the theatres.’ 

4 As you please,’ said Harry ; 4 but Flora seems to want us, and I 
should rather like to see what sort of company she keeps.’ 

Since Harry was impervious to shyness, Norman submitted, and 
George took them to a wonderworker in cloth, who undertook that 
full equipments should await the young gentleman. Harry next 
despatched his business at the Admiralty, and was made very happy 
by tidings of his friend Owen’s safe arrival in America. 


T1IE DAISY CHAIN. 


107 


Thence the brothers went to Eton, where home letters had been 
more regarded ; and Dr. May having written to secure a holiday for 
the objects of their visit, they were met at the station by the two 
boys. Hector’s red face and prominent light eyebrows were instantly 
recognized; but, as to Tom, Harry could hardly believe that the 
little, dusty, round-backed grub he had left, had been transformed 
into the well-made gentlemanlike lad before him, peculiarly trim 
and accurate in dress, even to the extent of as much foppery as 
Eton taste permitted. 

Ten minutes had not passed before Tom, taking a survey of the 
new comer, began to exclaim at Norman, for letting him go about 
such a figure ; and, before they knew what was doing, they had all 
been conducted into the shop of the 1 only living man who knew 
how to cut hair.’ Laughing and good-natured, Harry believed his 
hair was ‘ rather long,’ allowed himself to be seated, and to be 
divested of a huge superfluous mass of sun-dried curls, which Tom, 
particularly resenting that 1 rather long,’ kept on taking up, and 
unrolling their tight rings, to measure the number of inches. 

1 That is better,’ said he, as they issued from the shop ; * but, as 
to that coat of yours, the rogue who made it should never make 
another. Where could you have picked it up ? ’ 

‘ At a shop at Auckland,’ said Harry, much amused. 

1 Kept by a savage ? ’ said Tom, to whom it was no laughing 
matter. ‘ See that seam ! ’ 

‘ Have done, May ! ’ exclaimed Hector. ‘ He will think you a 
tailor’s apprentice ! ’ 

* Or worse,’ said Norman. { Rivers’s tailor kept all strictures to 
himself.’ 

T6m muttered that he only wanted Harry to be fit to be seen 
by the fellows. 

‘ The fellows are not such asses as you ! ’ cried Hector. 1 You 
don’t deserve that he should come to see you. If my — ’ 

There poor Hector broke olf. If his only brother had been 
walking beside him, how would lie not have felt ? They had 
reached their tutor’s house, and, opening his own door, he made an 
imploring sign to Harry to enter with him. On the table lay a 
letter from Margaret, and another which Harry had written to him 
from Auckland. 

* Oh, Harry, you were with him,’ he said ; ‘ tell me all about him.’ 

And he established himself, with his face hidden on the table, 

uttering nothing, except, ‘ Go on,’ whenever Harry’s voice failed 
in the narration. When something was said of ‘ all for the best,’ he 
burst out, ‘ He might say so. I suppose one ought to think so 
But is not it hard, when I had nobody but him ? And there was 
Maplewood ; and I might have been so happy there, with him and 
Margaret.’ 

‘ They say nothing could have made Margaret well,’ said Harry. 


198 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ I don’t care, lie would have married her all the same, and we 
should have made her so happy at Maplewood. I hate the place ! 
£ wish it were at Jericho ! ’ 

‘ You are captain of the ship now,’ said Harry, ‘and you must 
make the best of it.’ 

‘ I can’t. It will never he home. Home is with Margaret, 
and the rest of them.’ 

‘ So Alan said he hoped you would make it ; and you are just 
like one of us, you know.’ 

* What’s the use of that, when Captain Gordon will not let me 
go near you. Taking me to that abominable Maplewood last 
Easter, with half the house shut up, and all horrid ! And he is as 
dry as a stick ! ’ 

‘ The Captain ! ’ cried Harry, angrily. ‘ There’s not a better 
Captain to sail with in the whole navy, and y jur brother would be 
the first to tell you so ! I am not discharged yet, Hector — you had 
better look out what you say ! ’ 

‘ May be, he is the best to sail with, but that is not being the 
best to live with,’ said the heir of Maplewood, disconsolately. 
‘ Alan himself always said he never knew what home was, till he 
got to your father and Margaret.’ 

‘ So will you,’ said Harry; ‘ why,, my father is your master, or 
whatever you may call it.’ • 

‘ No, Captain Gordon is my guardian.’ 

‘ Eli ! what’s become of the will then ? ’ 

‘ What will ? ’ cried Hector. ‘ Hid Alan make one after all ? ’ 

‘ Aye. At Valparaiso, he had a touch of fever ; I went ashore 
to nurse him, to a merchant’s, who took us in for love of our Scottish 
blood. Mr. Ernescliffe made a will there, and left it in his charge.’ 

‘ Ho you think he made Hr. May my guardian ? ’ 

‘ He asked me whether I thought he would dislike it, and I told 
him, no.’ 

‘ That’s right ! ’ cried Hector. ‘ That’s like dear old Alan ! I 
shall get back to the Hoctor and Margaret after all. Mind you 
write to thfj Captain, Harry ! ’ 

Hector was quite inspirited and ready to return to the others, 
but Harry paused to express a hope that he did not let Tom make 
such a fool of himself as he had done to-day. 

‘Not he,’ said Hector. ‘ He is liked as much as anyone in the 
house — he lias been five times sent up for good. See there in the 
Eton list ! He is a real clever fellow.’ 

‘ Aye, but what’s the good of all that, if you let him be a puppy ? ’ 

‘ Oh, he’ll be cured. A fellow that has been a sloven always is 
a puppy for a bit,’ said Hector, philosophically. 

Norman was meantime taking Tom to task for these same airs, 
and, hearing it was from the desire to see his brother respectable — 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 109 

Stoneborougli men never cared for what they looked like, and lie- 
must have Harry do himself credit. 

‘ You need not fear,’ said Norman* { He did not require Eton 
to make him a gentleman. How now ? Why Tom, old man, you 
are not taking that to heart ? That’s all over long ago.’ 

For that black spot in his life had never passed out of the lad’s 
memory, and it might be from the lurking want of self-respect 
that there was about him so much of self-assertion, in attention to 
trifles. He was very reserved, and no one except Norman had ever 
found the way to anything like confidence and Norman had vexed 
him by the proposal he had made in the holidays. 

He made no answer, but stood looking at Norman with an odd 
undecided gaze. 

‘ Well, what now, old fellow? ’ said Norman, half fearing ‘that' 
might not be absolutely over. ‘ One would think you were not 
glad to see Harry.’ 

‘ I suppose he has made you all the more set upon that mad 
notion of yours,’ said Tom. 

I So far as making me feel that that part of the world has a 
strong claim on us,’ replied Norman. 

I I am sure you don’t look as if you found your pleasure in it,’ 
cried Tom. 

‘ Pleasure is not what I seek,’ said Norman. 

‘ What is the matter with you ? ’ said Tom. ‘ You said I did 
not seem rejoiced — you look worse, I am sure.’ Tom put his arm 
on Norman’s shoulder, and looked solicitously at him — demonstra- 
tions of affection very rare with him. 

‘ I wonder which would really make you happiest, to have your 
own way, and go to these black villains ? — ’ 

‘ Remember, that but for others who have done so, Harry — ’ 

‘ Pshaw,’ said Tom, rubbing some invisible dust from his coat 
sleeve. 1 If it wo aid keep you a * home, I would say I never would 
hear of doctoring. 

‘ I thought you had said so.’ 

‘ What’s the use of my coming here, if I’m to be a country 
doctor ? ’ 

‘ I have told you I do not mean to victimize you. If you have 
a distaste to it, there’s an end of it — I am quite ready.’ 

Tom gave a great sigh. * No,’ he said, ‘ if I must, I must ; I 
don’t mind the part of it that you do. I only hate the name of it, 
and the being tied down to a country place like that, while you go 
out thousands of miles off to these savages ; but if it is the only 
thing to content you, I wont stand in your way. I can’t bear your 
looking disconsolate.’ 

* Don’t think yourself bound, if you really dislike the profession. 

1 1 don’t,’ said Tom. ‘ It is my free choice. If it were not fcr 
horrid sick people, I should like it.’ 


200 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Promising ! it must bo confessed ! 

Perhaps Tom had expected Norman to brighten at once, but it 
was a fallacious hope. The gaining his point involved no pleasant 
prospect, and his young brother’s moody devotion to him, suggested 
scruples whether he ought to exact the sacrifice, though, in his own 
mind, convinced that it was Tom’s vocation; and knowing that 
would give him many of the advantages of an eldest son. 

Eton fully justified Hector’s declaration that it would not regard 
the cut of Harry’s coat. The hero of a lost ship and savage isle, 
was the object of universal admiration and curiosity, and inesti- 
mable were the favours conferred by Hector and Tom in giving intro- 
ductions to him, till he had shaken hands with half the school, and 
departed amid deafening cheers. 

In spite of Harry, the day had been long and heavy to Norman, 
and though he chid himself for his depression, he shrank from the 
sight of Meta and Sir Henry Walkinghame together, and was ready 
to plead an aching head as an excuse for not appearing at the even- 
ing party ; but, besides that this might attract notice, he thought 
himself bound to take care of Harry in so new a world, where the 
boy must be at a great loss. 

‘ I say, old June,’ cried a voice at his door, { are you ready ? ’ 

J I have not begun dressing yet. Will you wait V ’ 

1 Not I. The fun is beginning.’ 

Norman heard the light foot scampering down-stairs, and pre- 
pared to follow, to assume the protection of him. 

Music sounded as Norman left his room, and he turned aside to 
avoid the stream of company flowing up the flower-decked stairs, 
and made his way into the rooms through Flora’s boudoir. He 
was almost dazzled by the bright lights, and the gay murmurs of 
the brilliant throng. Young ladies with flowers and velvet stream- 
ers down their backs, old ladies portly and bejewelled, gentlemen 
looking civil, abounded wherever he turned his eyes. He could see 
Flora’s graceful head bending as she received guest after guest, and 
the smile with which she answered congratulations on her brother’s 
return ; but Harry he did not so quickly perceive, and he was try- 
ing to discover in what corner he might have hidden himself ; when 
Meta stood beside him, asking whether their Eton journey had 
prospered, and how poor Hector was feeling at Harry’s return ? 

1 Where is Harry ? ’ asked Norman. 1 Is he not rather out of 
his element ? ’ 

• No, indeed,’ said Meta, smiling. ‘ Why, he is the lion of the 
night ! ’ 

1 Poor fellow, how he must hate it ! ’ 

* Come this way, into the front room. There, look at him — is 
it not nice to see him, so perfectly simple and at his ease, neither 
shy nor elated ? And what a fine-looking fellow he is ! ’ 

Meta might well say so. The trim, well-knit broad-chested 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


201 


form, the rosy embrowned honest face, the shining light-brown curly 
locks, the danoing well-opened blue eyes, and merry hearty smile 
showed to the best advantage, in array that even Tom would not 
have spurned, put on with naval neatness ; and his attitude and 
manner were so full of manly ease, that it was no wonder that every 
eye rested on him with pleasure. Norman smiled at his own. mis- 
take. and asked who were the lady and gentleman conversing with 
him ? Meta mentioned one of the most distinguished of English 
names, and shared his amusement in seeing Harry talking to them 
with the same frank embarrassed ease, as when he had that morning 
shaken hands with their son, in the capacity of Hector Ernescliffe’s 
fag. No one present inspired him with a tithe of the awe he felt 
for a post-captain — it was simply a pleasant assembly of good- 
natured folks, glad to welcome home a battered sailor, and of 
pretty girls, for whom he had a sailor’s admiration, but without 
forwardness or presumption — all in happy grateful simplicity. 

1 1 suppose you cannot dance ? 5 said Flora, to him. 

‘ I ! ’ was Harry’s interjection ; and while she was looking round 
for a partner to whom to present him, he had turned to the young 
daughter of his new acquaintance, and had her on his arm, uncon- 
scious that George had been making his way to her. 

Flora was somewhat uneasy, but the mother was looking on 
smiling, and expressed her delight in the young midshipman ; and Mrs. 
Rivers, while listening gladly to his praises, watched heedfully, and 
was reassured to see that dancing was as natural to him as every- 
thing else ; his steps were light as a feather, his movement all 
freedom and joy, without being boisterous, and his boyish chivalry 
as pretty a sight as anyone could wish to see. 

If the rest of the world enjoyed their dances a quarter as much 
as did “ Mr. May,” they were enviable people, and he contributed 
not a little to their pleasure, if merely by the sight of his blithe 
freshness, and spirited simplicity, as well as the general sympathy 
with his sister’s joy, and the interest in his adventures. He would 
have been a general favourite, if he had been far less personally 
engaging ; as it was, every young lady was in raptures at dancing 
with him, and he did his best to dance with them all ; and to try 
to stir up Norman, who, after Meta had been obliged to leave him, 
and go to act her share of the part of hostess, had disposed of him- 
self against a wall, where he might live out the night. 

‘Ha! June! what makes you stand sentry there ? Come and 
dance, and have some of the fun! Some of those girls are the 
nicest partners in the world. There’s that Lady Alice something, 
with the dangling things in her hair, sitting down now — famous at 
a, polka. Come along, I’ll introduce you — it will do you good.’ 

‘ I know nothing of dancing,’ said Norman, beginning to appre- 
hend that he might be dragged off, as often he had been to cricket 
or foot-ball, and by much the same means. 


202 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 Comes by nature, when you bear the music. Ha ! what i» 
delicious polka ! Come along, or I must be off! She will be wait- 
ing for me, and sbe is tbe second prettiest girl liere ! Come ! ’ 

‘ I have been trying to make something of bim, Harry,’ said the 
ubiquitous Flora, 1 but I don’t know whether it is mauvaise honte 
or headache.’ 

‘ I see ! Poor old June ! ’ cried Harry. ‘ I’ll get you an ice at 
once, old fellow ! Nothing like one for setting a man going ! ’ 

Before Norman could protest, Harry had flown off. 

‘ Flora,’ asked Norman, 1 is — are the Walkinghames here ? ’ 

1 Yes. Don’t you see Sir Henry. That fine-looking man with 
the black moustache. I want you to know him. He is a great 
admirer of your prize poem, and of Dr. Spencer.’ 

Harry returning, administered his ice, and then darted off to 
excuse himself to his partner, by explanations about his brother, 
whom everybody must have heard of, as he was the cleverest fellow 
living, and had written the best prize poem ever heard at Oxford. 
He firmly believed Norman a much greater lion than himself. 

Norman was forced to leave his friendly corner to dispose of the 
glass of his ice, and thus encountered Miss Divers, of whom Sir 
Henry was asking questions about a beautiful collection of cameos 
which Flora had laid out as a company trap. 

‘ Here is Norman May,’ said Meta — £ he knows them better than 
I do. Do you remember which of these is the head of Diana, 
Norman ? ’ 

Having set the two gentlemen to discuss them, she glided away 
on fresh hospitable duties, while Norman repeated the comments 
that he had so enjoyed hearing from poor Mr. Divers, hoping he 
was, at least, sparing Meta some pain, and wondering that Flora 
should have risked hurting her feelings by exposing these treasures 
to the general gaze. 

If Norman were wearied by Sir Henry, it was his own fault, for 
the baronet was a very agreeable person, who thought a first-class 
man worth cultivation, so that the last half hour might have com- 
pensated for all the rest, if conversation were always the test. 

‘ Why, Meta ! ’ cried Harry, coming up to her, ‘ you have not 
once danced ! We are a sort of brother and sister, to be sure, but 
that is no hindrance, is it ? ’ 

I No,’ said Meta, smiling, ‘ thank you, Harry, but you must find 
some one more worthy. I do not dance this season ; at least, not 
in public. When we get home, who knows what we may do ? ’ 

‘ You don’t dance ! Poor little Meta ! And you don’t go out ! 
What a pity ! ’ 

I I had rather not work quite so hard,’ said Meta. 1 Think what 
good fortune I had by staying at home last night ! ’ 

‘ I declare ! ’ exclaimed Harry, bewitched by the beaming con 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 203 

gratulation of her look, 1 1 can’t imagine why Norman had said you 
had turned into a fine lady ! I can’t see a bit of it ! ’ 

1 Norman said I had turned into a fine lady ! ’ repeated Meta 
Why?’ 

£ Never mind ! I don’t think so ; you are just like papa’s hum- 
ming-bird, as you always were, not a bit more of a fine lady than 
any girl here, and I am sure papa would say so. Only old Juno 
had got a bad headache, and is in one of his old dumps, such as I 
hoped he had left off. But he can’t help it, poor fellow, and he will 
come out of it, by-and-by — so never mind. Hollo ! why people are 
going away already. There’s that girl without anyone to hand her 
downstairs.’ 

Away ran Harry, and presently the brothers and sisters gathered 
round the fire — G-eorge declaring that he was glad that nuisance 
was so well over, and Harry exclaiming, 1 Well done, Flora ! It was 
capital fun ! I never saw a lot of prettier or more good-natured 
people in my life. If I am at home for the Stoneborough ball, I 
wonder whether my father will let me go to it.’ 

This result of Harry’s successful debut in high life struck his 
sister and Norman as so absurd that both laughed. 

1 Wliat’s the matter now ? ’ asked Harry. 

1 Your comparing Flora’s party to a Stoneborough ball,’ said 
Norman. 

‘ It is all the same, isn’t it ? ’ said Harry. ‘ I’m sure you are 
equally disgusted at both ! ’ 

4 Much you know about it,’ said Flora, patting him gaily. 1 I’m 
not going to put conceit in that lion head of yours, but you were as 
good as an Indian prince to my party. Do you know to whom you 
have been talking so coolly ? ’ 

‘ Of course. You see, Norman, it is just as I told you. All 
civilized people are just alike when they get into a drawing-room.’ 

‘ Harry takes large views of the Genus homo ,’ Norman exerted 
himself to say. * Being used to the black and brown species, he 
takes little heed of the lesser varieties.’ 

1 It is enough for him that he does not furnish the entertainment 
in another way,’ said Flora. 1 But, good-night. Meta, you look 
tired.’ 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Lot none, henceforward, shrink from daring dreams, 

For earnest hearts shall find their dreams fulfilled.’ 

Fouquk. 

‘ I have it ! ’ began Harry, as he came down to breakfast. 1 I don’t 
know how I came to forget it. The will was to be sent home to 
Mr. Mackintosh’s English partner. I’ll go and overhaul him this 


204 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


very morning. They won’t mind my coming by a later train, who* 
there is such a reason.’ 

1 What is his name ? Where shall you find him ? ’ asked Flora. 

* I can’t be sure; but you’ve a Navy List of that sort of cattle, 
have not you, Flora ? I’ll hunt him up.’ 

Flora supposed he meant a Directory ; and all possible South 
American merchants having been overlooked, and the Mackintoshes 
selected, he next required a chart of London, and wanted to attempt 
self-navigation, but was forced to accept of George’s brougham and 
escort ; Flora would not trust him otherwise ; and Norman was 
obliged to go to Oxford at once, hurrying off to his train before 
breakfast was over. 

Flora might have trusted Harry alone. George contributed no 
more than the dignity of his presence ; and, indeed, would have 
resigned the pursuit at the first blunder about the firm ; and still 
more when the right one had been found, but the partner proved 
crusty, and would not believe that any such document was in his 
hands. George was consenting to let it rest till Mr. Mackintosh 
could be written to ; but Harry, outrunning his management, and 
regardless of rebuffs, fairly teased the old gentleman into a search 
as the only means of getting rid of the troublesome sailor. 

In the midst of George’s civil regrets at the fruitless troublo 
they were causing, forth came a bundle of papers, and forth from 
the bundle fell a packet, on which Harry pounced as he read, £ Will 
of Alan Halliday Ernescliffe, Esquire, of Maplewood, Yorkshire. 
Lieutenant in H.M.S. Alcestis,” and, in the corner, the executors' 
names. Captain John Gordon, of II.M.S. Alcestis; and Richard 
May, Esquire, M.D., Market Stoneborough. 

As if in revenge, the prudent merchant would not be induced to 
entrust him with the document, saying he could not give it up till 
he had heard from the executors, and had been certified of the 
death of the testator. He withstood both the angry gentlemen, 
who finally departed in a state of great resentment— -Harry declar- 
ing that the old land-lubber would not believe that he was his own 
father’s son ; and Mr. Rivers, no less incensed, that the House of 
Commons had been insulted in his person, because he did not carry 
all before him. 

Flora laughed at their story, and told them that she suspected 
that the old gentleman was in the right ; and she laid plans for 
having Harry to teach them yachting at Ryde, while Harry 
declared he would have nothing to do with such trumpery. 

Harry found his home in a sort of agony of expectation, for his 
non-arrival at th6 time expected had made his first appearance seem 
like an unsubstantial illusion, though Dr. May, or Mary and Aubrey, 
had been at the station at the coming in of each train. Margaret 
had recovered the effects of the first shock, and the welcome was 
fitr more joyous than the first had been, with. the mixed sensations 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 205 

that were now composed, and shewed little, outwardly, but glad' 
ness. 

Dr. May took Flora’s view of the case, and declared that, if 
Harry had brought home the will, he should not have opened it 
without his co-executor. So he wrote to the Captain, while Harry 
made the most of his time in learning his sisters over again. Ho 
spent a short time alone with Margaret every morning, patiently 
and gently allowing himself to be recalled to the sad recollections- 
that were all the world to her. He kept Ethel and Mary merry 
with his droll desultory comments ; he made Blanche keep up her 
dancing ; and taught Gertrude to be a thorough little romp. As to 
Dr. May, his patients never were so well or so cheerful, till Dr. 
Spencer and Ethel suspected that the very sight of his looks bright- 
ened them — how could they help it ? Dr. Spencer was as happy as 
a king in seeing his friend, freed from the heavy weight on his spirits ; 
and, truly, it was goodly to watch his perfect look of content, as he 
leant on his lion-faced boy’s arm, and walked down to the Minster, 
whither it seemed to have become possible to go on most evenings. 
Good Dr. May was no musician, but Mr. Wilmot could not regret 
certain tones that now and then burst out in the chanting, from the 
very bottom of a heart that assuredly sang with the full melody of 
thankfulness, whatever the voice might do. 

Captain Gordon not only wrote but came to Stoneborough, whence 
Harry was to go with him to the court-martial at Portsmouth. 

The girls wondered that, after writing with so much warmth and 
affection, both of and to Harry, he met him without any demonstra- 
tion of feeling ; and his short peremptory manner removed all sur- 
prise that poor Hector had been so forlorn with him at Maplewood, 
and turned, with all his heart, to Dr. May. They were especially 
impressed at the immediate subsidence of all Harry’s noise and 
nonsense, as if the drawing-room had been the quarter-deck of the 
Alcestis. 

I And yet,’ said Margaret, 4 Harry will not hear a single word 
in dispraise of him. I do believe he loves him with all his heart.’ 

I I think,’ said Ethel, ‘ that in a strong character, there is an 
exulting fear in looking up to a superior, in whose justice there is 
perfect reliance. It is a germ of the higher feeling.’ 

4 1 believe you are right,’ said Margaret ; 4 but it is a serious 
thing for a man to have so little sympathy with those below him. 
You see how Hector feels it, and I now understand how it told upon 
Alan, and how papa’s warmth was like a surprise to him.’ 

4 Because Captain Gordon had to be a father to them, and that 
is more than a captain. I should not wonder if there were more 
similarity and fellow-feeling between him and Harry than there 
could be with either of them. Harry, though he has all papa’s ten- 
derness, is of a rougher sort that likes to feel itself mastered. Poor 
Hector ! I wonder if he is to be given back to us.’ 


206 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 Do you know — when — whether they will find out this morning ? 
said Margaret, catching her dress nervously, as she was moving 
away. 

‘Yes, I believe so. I was not to have told you, but — 

‘ There is no reason that it should do me any harm,’ said Mar- 
garet, almost smiling, and looking as if she was putting a restraint 
on something she wished to say. ‘ Go down, dear .Ethel — Aubrey 
will be waiting for you.’ 

Ethel went down to the difficult task of hearing Aubrey’s les- 
sons, while Harry was pretending to write to Mrs. Arnott, but, in 
reality, teaching Gertrude the parts of a ship, occasionally acting 
mast, for her to climb. 

By-and-by, Dr. May came in. ‘ Margaret not down- stairs yet ?’ 
he said. 

‘ She is dressed, but will not come down till the evening,’ said 
Ethel. 

‘ I’ll go to her. She will be pleased. Come up, presently, Ethel. 
Or, where’s Richard ? ’ 

‘ Gone out,’ said Harry. ‘ What, is it anything left to her ? ’ 

‘ The best, the best ! ’ said Dr. May. ‘ Ethel, listen — twenty 
thousand, to build and endow a Church for Cocksmoor ! ’ 

No need to bid Ethel listen. She gave a sort of leap in her 
chair, then looked almost ready to faint. 

‘ My dear child,’ said her father, ‘ this is your wish. I give you 
joy, indeed I do ! ’ 

Ethel drew his arm round her, and leant against him. 

‘ My wish ! my wish ! ’ she repeated, as if questioning the drift 
of the words. 

‘ I’m glad it is found!’ cried Harry. ‘Now I know why h€ 
talked of Cocksmoor, and seemed to rest in planning for it. You 
will mind the roof is as he said.’ 

‘ You must talk to Dr. Spencer about that,’ said Dr. May. 
‘ The Captain means to leave it entirely in our hands.’ 

‘ Dear Alan ! ’ exclaimed Ethel. ‘ My wish ! O yes, but how 
gained ? Yet, Cocksmoor with a Church ! I don’t know how to 
be glad enough, and yet — ’ 

‘ You shall read the sentence,’ said Dr. May. ‘ “ In testimony 
of thankfulness for mercy vouchsafed to him here — ” poor dear 
boy ! ’ 

‘ What does the Captain say ? ’ asked Harry. 

‘ He is rather astounded, but he owns that the estate can bear 
it, for old Halliday had saved a great deal, and there will be more 
before Hector comes of age.’ 

‘ And Hector ? ’ 

‘ Yes, we get him back. I am fellow-trustee with Captain Gor- 
don, and as to personal guardianship, I fancy the Captain found h« 


the daisy Chain. 


207 


could not make the boy happy, and thinks you no bad specimen of 
our training.’ 

‘ Famous ! ’ cried Harry. 1 Hector will hurrah now ! Is that 
all?’ 

* Except legacies to Captain Gordon, and some Scottish rela- 
tions. But poor Margaret ought to hear it. Ethel, don’t be long 
in coming.’ 

With all Ethel’s reputation for bluntness, it was remarkable 
how her force of character made her always called for whenever 
there was the least dread of a scene. 

She turned abruptly from Harry ; and, going outside the win- 
dow, tried to realize and comprehend tne tidings but all she could 
have time to discover was, that Alan’s memory was dearer to her 
than ever, and she was obliged to hasten up-stairs. 

Her father quitted the room by one door, as she entered by the 
other ; she believed that it was to hide his emotion, but Margaret’s 
fair wan face was beaming with the sweetest of congratulating 
smiles. 

* I thought so,’ she said, as Ethel came in. ‘ Dear Ethel, are 
you not glad ? ’ 

‘ I think I am,’ said Ethel, putting her handc to her brow. 

I You think ! ’ exclaimed Margaret, as if disappointed. 

I I beg your pardon,’ said Ethel, with quivering lip. ‘ Dear 
Margaret, I am glad — don’t you believe I am, but somehow, it is 
harder to deal with joy than grief. It confuses one ! Dear Alan 
— and then to have been set on it so long — to have prayed so for it, 
and to have it come in this way — by your — ’ 

1 Nay, Ethel, had he come home, it was his great wish to have 
done it. He used to make projects when he was here, but he would 
not let me tell you, lest he should find duties at Maplewood — 
whereas this would have been his pleasure.’ 

‘ Dear Alan ! ’ repeated Ethel. ‘ If you are so kind, so dear as 
to be glad, Margaret, I think I shall be so presently.’ 

Margaret almost grudged the lack of the girlish outbreak of re- 
joicing which would once have forgotten everything in the ecstasy 
of the fulfilled vision. It did not seem to be what Alan had in- 
tended ; he had figured to himself unmixcd joy, and she wanted to 
see it, and something of the wayward impatience of weakness throb- 
bed at her heart, as Ethel paced the room, and disappeared in her 
own curtained recess. 

Presently she came back, saying, 1 You are sure you are glad ? ’ 

1 It would be strange if I were not,’ said Margaret. 1 See, Ethel, 
here are blessings springing up from what I used to think had 
served for nothing but to bring him pain and grief. I am so thank- 
ful that he could express his desire, and so grateful to dear Harry 
for bringing it to light. How much better it is than I ever thought 


208 


TIIE DAISY CIIAIK. 


it could bo ! He lias been spared disappointment, and surely the 
good that he will have done will follow him.’ 

1 And you ? ’ said Ethel, sadly. 

I I shall lie here and wait,’ said Margaret. 1 1 shall see the 
plans, and hear all about it, and oh ! ’ her eyes lighted up, 1 perhaps 
some day I may hear the bell.’ 

Richard’s tap interrupted them. ‘ Had he heard ? ’ 

I I have.’ The deepened colour in his cheek betrayed how much 
he felt, as he cast an anxious glance towards Margaret — an inquiring 
one on Ethel. 

1 She is so pleased,’ was all Ethel could say. 

4 1 thought she would be,’ said Richard, approaching. 4 Captair 
Gordon seemed quite vexed that no special token of remembrance 
was left to her.’ 

Margaret smiled in a peculiar way. 4 If he only knew how glad 
I am there was not.’ 

And Ethel knew that the Church was his token to Margaret, 
and that any 1 fading frail memorial ’ would have lessened the force 
of the signification. 

Ethel could speak better to her brother than to her sister. 4 0 
Richard ! Richard ! Richard ! ’ she cried, and a most unusual thing 
with both, she flung her arms round his neck. 4 It is come at last ! 
If it had not been for you, this would never have been. How little 
likely it seemed, that dirty day, when I talked wildly, and you 
checked me ! ’ 

4 You had faith and perseverance,’ said Richard, 4 or — ’ 

4 You are right,’ said Margaret, as Ethel was about to disclaim. 

4 It was Ethel’s steadiness that brought it before Alan’s mind. I; 
she had yielded when we almost wished it, in the time of the dis- 
tress about Mrs. Green, I do believe that all would have died 
away ! ’ 

4 I didn’t keep steady — I was only crazy. You and Ritchie and 
Mr. Wilmot — ’ said Ethel, half crying ; then, as if unable to stay, 
she exclaimed with a sort of petulance, 4 And there’s Harry playing 
all sorts of rigs with Aubrey ! I shan’t get any more sense out of 
him to-day ! ’ 

And away she rushed to the wayfaring dust of her life of labour, 
to find Aubrey and Daisy half way up the tulip-tree, and Harry 
mischievously unwilling to help them down again, assuring her that 
such news deserved a holiday, and that she was growing a worse 
Tartar than Miss Winter. She had better let the poor children 
alone, put on her bonnet, and come with him to tell Mr. Wilmot. 

Whereat Ethel was demurring, when Dr. May came forth, and 
declared he should take her himself. 

Poor Mr. Wilmot laboured under a great burthen of gratitude, 
which no one would receive from him. Dr. May and Ethel repudi- 
ated thanks almost with terror ; and, when he tried them with th« 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


209 


Captain, lie found very doubtful approval of the whole measure, sc 
that Harry alone was a ready acceptant of a full meed of acknow- 
ledgments for his gallant extraction of the will. 

No one was more obliged to him than Hector Ernescliffe, who 
wrote to Margaret that it would be very jolly to come home again, 
and that he was delighted that the Captain could not hinder either 
that or Cocksmoor Church. 1 And as to Maplewood, I shall not 
hate it so much, if that happens which I hope will happen.’ Of 
which oracular sentence, Margaret could make nothing. 

The house of May felt more at their ease when the uncongenial 
Captain had departed, although he carried off Harry with him. 
There was the better opportunity for a tea-drinking consultation 
with Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilmot, when Margaret lay on her sofa, 
looking better than for months past, and taking the keenest interest 
in every arrangement. 

Dr. Spencer, whose bright eyes glittered at every mention of the 
subject, assumed that he was to be the architect, while Dr. May was 
assuring him that it was a maxim that no one unpaid could be 
trusted ; and when he talked of beautiful German Churches with 
pierced spires, declared that the building must not make too large a 
hole in the twenty thousand, at the expense of future Curates, be- 
cause Richard was the first. 

‘ I’ll be prudent, Dick,’ said Dr. Spencer. ‘ Trust me not to 
rival the Minster.’ 

‘ We shall find work next for you there,’ said Mr. Wilmot. 

‘ Aye, we shall have May out of his family packing-box before 
many years are over his head. ’ 

‘ Don’t mention it,’ said Dr. May ; 1 1 know what I exposed my- 
self to in bringing Wilmot here.’ 

I Yes,’ said Dr. Spencer, ‘ we shall put you in the van when we 
attack the Corporation pen.’ 

I I shall hold by the good old cause. As if the galleries had not 
been there before you were born ! ’ 

‘ As if poor people had a right to sit in their own church ! ’ 
said Ethel. 

< Sit, you may well say,’ said Mr. Wilmot. ‘ As if anyone could 
do otherwise, with those ingenious traps for hindering kneeling.’ 

‘ Well, well, I know the people must have room,’ said Dr. May, 
cutting short several further attacks which he saw impending. 

1 Yes, ycu would like to build another blue gallery, blocking up 
another window, and with Richard May and Christopher Tomkins, 
Churchwardens, on it, in orange-coloured letters — the Rivers’ colours. 
No disrespect to your father, Miss May, but, as a general observa- 
tion, it is a property of Town Councillors to be conservative onlj 
where they ought not.’ 

< I brought you here to talk of building a Church, not of pulling 
one to pieces.’ 


210 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Poor Doctor May, he knew it was inevitable and quite right, 
but his affectionate heart and spirit of perpetuity, which had an as* 

' sociation connected with every marble cloud, green-baize pew, and 
square-headed panel, anticipated tortures in the general sweep, for 
which his ecclesiastical taste and sense of propriety would not soon 
compensate. 

Margaret spared his feelings by bringing the Cocksmoor subject 
back again ; Dr. Spencer seemed to comprehend the ardour with 
which she pressed it on, as if it were very near her heart that there 
should be no delay. He said he could almost promise her that the 
first stone should be laid before the end of the summer, and she 
thanked him in her own warm sweet way, hoping that it would be 
while Hector and Harry were at home. 

Harry soon returned, having gone through the Court Martial 
with the utmost credit, been patronized by Captain Gordon in an 
unheard of manner, asked to dine with the Admiral, and promised 
to be quickly afloat again. Ere many days had passed, he was ap- 
pointed to one of the finest vessels in the fleet, commanded by a 
Captain to whom Captain Gordon had introduced him, and, who 
“ seemed to have taken a fancy to him,” as he said. The Bucepha- 
lus, now the object of his pride, was refitting, and his sisters hoped 
to see a good deal of him before he should again sail. Besides, 
Flora would be at Hyde before the end of July. 

It was singular that Ethel’s vision should have been fulfilled 
simultaneously with Flora’s having obtained a position so far be- 
yond what could have been anticipated. 

She was evidently extremely happy and valuable, much admired 
and respected, and with full exercise for the energy and cleverness, 
which were never more gratified than by finding scope for action. 
Her husband was devotedly attached to her, and was entirely man- 
aged by her, and though her good judgment kept her from appear- 
ing visibly in matters not pertaining to her own sphere, she was, in 
fact, his understanding. She read, listened, and thought for him, 
imbued him with her own views, and composed his letters for him ; 
ruling his affairs, both political and private, and undeniably making 
him fill , a position, which, without her, he would have left vacant ; 
nor was there any doubt that he was far happier for finding himself 
of consequence, and being no longer left a charge upon his own 
hands. He seemed fully to suffice to her as a companion, although 
she was so far superior in power ; for it was, perhaps, her nature to 
love best that which depended upon her, and gave her a sense of 
exercising protection; as she had always loved Margaret better 
than Ethel. 

“ Mrs. llivers was an admirable woman.” So everyone felt, and 
her youthful beauty and success in the fashionable world, made her 
qualities, as a wife and mistress of a household, the more appre- 
ciated. She never set aside her religious habits or principles, was 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


2n 

an active member of various charitable associations, and found her 
experience of the Stoneborough Ladies’ Committee applicable among 
far greater names. Indeed, Lady Leonora thought dear Flora Rivers' 
only fault, her over strictness, which encouraged Meta in the same, 
but there were points that Flora could not have yielded on any 
account, without failing in her own eyes. 

She made time for everything, and though, between business 
and fashion, she seemed to undertake more than mortal could ac- 
complish, it was all effected, and excellently. She did, indeed, sigh 
over the briefness of the time that she could- bestow on her child or 
on home correspondence, and declared that she should rejoice in 
rest ; but, at the same time, her achievements were a positive plea- 
sure to her. 

Meta, in the meantime, had been living passively on the most 
affectionate terms with her brother and sister, and though often 
secretly yearning after the dear old father, whose darling she had 
been, and longing for power of usefulness, she took it on trust that 
her present lot had been ordered for her, and was thankful, like the 
bird of Dr. May’s fable, for the pleasures in her path — culling sweet 
morals, and precious thoughts out of book, painting or concert, 
occasions for Christian charities in each courtesy of society, and 
opportunities for cheerful self-denial and submission, whenever any 
little wish was thwarted. 

So Norman said she had turned into a fine lady ! It was a 
sudden and surprising intimation, and made a change in the usually 
bright and calm current of her thoughts. She was not aware that 
there had *been any alteration in herself, and it was a revelation that 
set her to examine where she had changed — poor little thing I She 
was not angry, she did not resent the charge, she took it for 
granted that, coming from such a source, it must be true and 
reasonable — and what did it mean ? Did he think her too gay, or 
neglectful of old friends ? What had they been saying to Harry 
about her ? 

1 Ah ! ’ thought Meta, ‘ I understand it. I am living a life of 
ease and uselessness, and with his higher aims and nobler purposes, 
he shrinks from the frivolities among which I am cast. I saw his 
saddened countenance among our gaieties, and I know that to deep 
minds there is heaviness in the midst of display. He withdraws 
from the follies that have no charms for him, and I — ought I to 
be able to help being amused ? I don’t seek these things, but, per- 
haps I ought to avoid them more than I do — If I could be quite 
clear what is right, I should not care what effort I made. But I 
was born to be one of those who have trial of riches, and such 
blessed tasks are not my portion. But if he sees the vanities creep- 
ing into my heart, I should be grateful for that warning.’ 

So meditated Meta, as she copied one of her own drawings of 
the Grange, for her dear old governess, Mrs. Larpent, while each 


212 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


line and tint recalled the comments of her fond amateur father 
and the scenery carried her home in spite of the street sounds 
and the scratching of Flora’s pen, coursing over note paper. Pre« 
sently, Sir Henry Walkinghame called, bringing a beautiful 
bouquet. 

‘ Delicious,’ cried Meta. 4 See, Flora, it is in good time, for 
those vases were sadly shabby.’ 

She began at once to arrange the flowers, a task that seemed 
what she was born for, and the choice roses and geraniums acquired 
fresh grace as she placed them in the slender glasses and classic 
vases ; but Flora’s discerning eyes perceived some mortification on 
the part of the gentleman, and, on his departure, playfully reproached 
Meta for ingratitude. 

Did we not thank him ? I thought I did them all due honour, 
actually using the Dresden bowl.’ 

‘.You little wretch! quite insensible to the sentiment of the 
thing.’ 

‘ Sentiment ! One would think you had been reading about the 
language of flowers ! ’ 

‘ Whatever there was, poor Sir Henry did not mean it for the 
Dresden bowl, or Bohemian glass.’ 

‘ Flora ! do pray tell me whether you are in fun ? ’ 

‘ You ridiculous child ! ’ said Flora, kissing her earnest forehead, 
ringing the bell, and gathering up her papers, as she walked out of 
the room, and gave her notes to the servant. 

‘ What does she mean ? Is it play ? 0 no, a hint would be far 

more like her. But I hope it is nonsense. He is very kind and 
pleasant, and I should not know what to do.’ 

Instances of his complaisance towards herself rose before her, so 
as to excite some warmth and gratitude. Her lonely heart thrilled 
at the idea of being again the best beloved, and her energetic spirit 
bounded at the thought of being no longer condemned to a life of 
idle ease. Still it was too new a light to her to be readily accepted, 
after she had looked on him so long, merely as a familiar of the 
house, attentive to her, because she fell to his share, when Flora 
was occupied. She liked him, decidedly ; she could possibly do 
more ; but she was far more inclined to dread, than to desire, any 
disturbance of their present terms of intercourse. 

‘ However,’ thought she, ‘ I must see my way If he should 
have any such thing in his head, to go on as we do now would be 
committing myself, and I will not do that, unless I am sure it is 
right. 0 papa ! you would settle it for me ! But I will have it 
out with Flora. She will find out what I cannot — how far he is a 
man for whom one ought to care. I do not think Norman liked 
him, but then Norman has so keen a sense of the world- touched. 
L suppose I am that ! If any other life did but seem appointed for 
me, but cue cannot tell what is thwarting providential leading, and 


THE DAISY CIIAIST. 


213 


if this be as good man as — What would Ethel say ? If I could but 
talk to Dr. May ! But Flora I will catch, before I see him again, 
that I may know how to behave.’ 

Catching Flora was not the easiest thing in the world, among 
her multifarious occupations ; but Meta was not the damsel to lose 
an opportunity for want of decision. 

Flora saw what was coming, and was annoyed with herself for 
having given the alarm ; but, after all, it must have come some 
time or other, though she had rather that Meta had been more 
involved first. 

It should be premised that Mrs. Bivers had no notion of the 
degree of attachment felt by her brother for Meta ; she only knew 
that Lady Leonora had a general distrust of her family, and she 
felt it a point of honour to promote no dangerous meetings, and to 
encourage Sir Henry — a connection who would be most valuable, 
both as conferring importance upon George in the county, and as 
being himself related to persons of high influence, whose interest 
might push on her brothers. Preferment for Bichard ; promotion 
for Harry ; nay, diplomatic appointments for Tom, came floating 
before her imagination, even while she smiled at her Alnaschar 
visions. 

But the tone of Meta, as she drew her almost forcibly into her 
room, shewed her that she had given a great shock to her basket. 

‘ Flora, if you would only give me a minute, and would tell 
me — ’ 

‘ What ? ’ asked Flora, not inclined to spare her blushes. 

‘ Whether, whether you meant anything in earnest ? ’ 

‘ My dear little goose, did no one ever make an innocent joke in 
their lives before ? ’ 

‘ It was very silly of me,’ said Meta ; 1 but you gave me a terri- 
ble fright.’ 

‘Was it so very terrible, poor little bird ?’ said Flora, in com- 
miseration. ‘ Well then you may safely think of him as a man 
tame about the house. It was much prettier of you not to appro- 
priate the flowers, as any other damsel would have done.’ 

‘ Do you really and truly think — ’ began Meta ; but, from the 
colour of her cheek, and the timid resolution of her tone, Flora 
thought it safest not to hear the interrogation, and answered, ‘ I 
know what he comes here for — it is only as a refuge from his 
mother’s friend, old Lady Drummond, who would give the world to 
catch him for her daughters — that’s all. Put my nonsense out of 
your head, and be yourself, my sweet one.’ 

Flora had never gone so near an untruth, as when she led Meta 
to believe this was the sole reason. But, after all, what did Flora 
herself know to the contrary ? ’ 

Meta recovered her ease, and Flora marked, as weeks passed on, 
that she grew more accustomed to Sir Henry’s attentions. A little 


214 


THE DAISY CHAIH. 


while, and she would find herself so far hound by the encourage 
rnent she had given, that she could not reject him. 

1 My dear,’ said George, 1 when do you think of going down tc 
take the baby to the Grange ? She looks dull, I think.’ 

‘ Really, I think it is hardly worth while to go down en masse, 
said Flora. 1 These last debates may be important, and it is a bad 
time to quit one’s post. Don’t you think so ? ’ 

1 As you please — the train is a great bore.’ 

* And we will send the baby down the last day before we go to 
Ryde, with Preston and Butts to take care of her. We can’t spare 
him to take them down, till we shut up the house. It is so much 
easier for us to go to Portsmouth from hence.’ 

The lurking conviction was, that one confidential talk with 
Ethel, would cause the humming-bird to break the toils that were 
being wmund invisibly round her. Ethel and her father knew 
nothing of the world, and were so unreasonable in their require- 
ments ! Meta would consult them all, and all her scruples would 
awaken, and perhaps Dr. Spencer might be interrogated on Sir 
Henry’s life abroad, where Flora had a suspicion that gossip had 
best not be raked up. 

Not that she concealed anything positively known to her, or 
that she was not acting just as she would have done by her own 
child. She found herself happily married to one whom home no- 
tions would have rejected, and she believed Meta would be perfect- 
ly happy with a man of decided talent, honour, and unstained char- 
acter, even though he should not come up to her father’s or Ethel’s 
standard. 

If Meta were to marry as they would approve, she would have 
far to seek among “ desirable connections.” Meantime, was not 
Flora acting with exemplary judgment and self-denial ? 

So she wrote that she could not come home; Margaret was 
much disappointed, and so was Meta, who had looked to Ethel to 
unravel the tangles of her life. 

‘ No, no, little Miss,’ said Flora to herself ; ‘ you don’t talk to 
Ethel till your fate is irrevocable. Why, if I had listened to her 
I should be thankful to be singing at Mrs. Hoxton’s parties at tnis 
minute ! and, as for herself, look at Norman Ogilvie ! No, no, after 
six weeks’ yachting — moonlight, sea, and sympathy — I defy her to 
rob Sir Henry of his prize ! And, with Meta lady of Cocksmoor 
even Ethel herself must be charmed ! ’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


215 


CHAPTER XX. 

‘ W o barter life for pottage, sell true bliss 
For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown ; 

Tims, Esau-like, our Father's blessing miss, 

Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.’ 

Christian Year. 

Papa, here is a message from Flora for you,’ said Margaret, holding 
up a letter; 1 she wants to know whom to consult about the baby.’ 

1 Ha ! what’s the matter ? ’ 

Margaret read — 1 Will you ask papa whom I had better call in to 
see the baby. There does not seem to be anything positively amiss, 
but I am not happy about her. There is a sleepiness about her 
which I do not understand, and, when roused, she is fretful, and 
will not be amused. There is a look in her eyes which I do hot 
like, and I should wish to have some advice for her. Lady Leonora 

recommends Mr. , but I always distrust people who are very 

much the rage, and I shall send for no one without papa’s advice.’ 

‘ Let me see ! ’ said Hr. May, startled, and holding out his hand 
for the letter . — 1 A look about the eyes ! I shall go up and see her 
myself. Why has not she brought her home ? ’ 

1 It would have been far better,’ said Margaret. 

1 Sleepy and dull ! She was as lively a child when they took 
her away, as I ever saw. What ! is there no more about her ? The 
letter is crammed with somebody’s fete — vote of want of confidence 
— debate last night. What is she about ? She fancies she knows 
everything, and, the fact is, she knows no more about infants — I 
could see that, when, the poor little thing was a day old ! ’ 

‘ Ho you think there is cause for fear ? ’ said Margaret, anxiously. 

‘ I can’t tell. With a first child, one can’t guess what may be 
mamma’s fancy, or what may be seriolis. Hut Flora is not too 
fanciful, and I must see her for my own satisfaction. Let some 
one write, and say I will come up to-morrow by the twelve o’clock 
train — and mind she opens the letter.’ 

Hr. May kept his word, and the letter had evidently not been 
neglected ; for George was watching for him at the station, and 
thanked him so eagerly for coming, that Hr. May feared that he 
was indeed needed, and inquired anxiously. 

1 Flora is uneasy about her — she seems heavy, and cries when 
she is disturbed,’ replied George. ‘ Flora has not left her to-day, 
and hardly yesterday.’ 

1 Have you had no advice for her ? ’ 

1 Flora preferred waiting till you should come.’ 

Hr. May made an impatient movement, and thought the way 
long, till they were set down in Park Lane. Meta came to meet 
them on the stairs, and said that the baby was just the same, and 
Flora was in the nursery, and thither they hastily ascended. 

23 


216 


TILE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ 0 papa ! I am so glad you are come ! 5 said Flora, starting 
up from her low seat, beside the cradle. 

Dr. May hardly paused to embrace his daughter, and she 
anxiously led him to the cradle, and tried to read his expression, as 
his eyes fell on the little face, somewhat puffed, but of a waxy 
whiteness, and the breathing seeming to come from the lips. 

* IIow long has she been so ? ’ he asked, in a rapid, professional 
manner. 

‘ For about two or three hours. She was very fretful before, 
but I did not like to call in anyone, as you were coming. Is it 
from her teeth ? ’ said Flora, more and more alarmed by his man- 
ner. 1 Her complexion is always like that — she cannot bear to be 
disturbed — •’ added she, as the child feebly moaned, on Dr. May 
beginning to take her from her cradle ; but, without attending to 
the objection, he lifted her up, so that she lay as quietly as before, 
on his arm. Flora had trusted that hope and confidence would 
come with him ; but, on the contrary, every lurking misgiving 
began to rush wildly over her, as she watched his countenance, while 
he carried his little grand-daughter towards the light, studied her 
intently, raised her drooping eyelids, and looked into her eyes, 
scarcely eliciting another moan. Flora dared not ask a question, 
but looked on with eyes open, as it were, stiffened. 

‘ This is the effect of opium ! ’ were Dr. May’s first words, 
breaking on all with startling suddenness ; but, before anyone could 
speak, he added, ‘We must try some stimulant, directly;’ then 
looking round the room, ‘ What have you nearest ? ’ 

1 Godfrey’s Cordial, sir,’ quickly suggested the nurse. 

1 Aye — anything to save time — she is sinking for want of the 
drug that has — ’ he broke off to apportion the dose, and to hold the 
child in a position to administer it — Flora tried to give it — the 
nurse tried — in vain. 

‘ Do not torment her farther,’ said the Doctor, as Flora would 
have renewed the trial — ‘ it cannot be done. What have you all 
been doing ? ’ cried he, as, looking up, his face changed from the 
tender compassion with which lie had been regarding his little 
patient, into a look of strong indignation, and one of his sentences 
of hasty condemnation broke from him, as it would not have done 
had Flora been less externally calm. ‘ I tell you this child has 
been destroyed with opium ! ’ 

They all recoiled ; the father turned fiercely round on the nurse, 
with a violent exclamation, but Dr. May checked him. ‘ Hush ! 
This is no presence for the wrath of man.’ The solemn tone 
seemed to make George shrink into an awestruck quiescence ; ho 
stood motionless and transfixed, as if indeed conscious of some 
overwhelming presence. 

Flora had come near, with an imploring gesture, to take the 
child in her own arms ; but Dr. May, by a look of authority, pre* 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


217 

vented it ; for indeed, it would have been harassing and distressing 
the poor little sufferer again to move her, as she lay with feeble 
gasps on his arm. 

So they remained, for what space no one knew — not one word 
was uttered — not a limb moved, and the street noises sounded far 
off. 

Dr. May stooped his head closer to the babe’s face,, and seemed 

listening for a breath, as he once more touched the little wrist he 

took away his finger, he ceased to listen, he looked up. 

Flora gave one cry — not loud, not sharp, but ‘ an exceeding 
bitter cry ’ — she would have moved forward, but reeled, and her 
husband’s arms supported her as she sank into a swoon. 

‘ Carry her to her room,’ said Dr. May. ‘ I will come’ — and, 
when George had borne her away, he kissed the lifeless cheek, and 
reverently placed the little corpse in the cradle ; but, as he rose 
from doing so, the sobbing nurse exclaimed, ‘ Oh ! sir, oh ! sir, 
indeed, I never did — ’ 

‘ Never did what ? ’ said Dr. May, sternly. 

‘ 1 never gave the dear baby anything to do her harm,’ cried 
Preston, vehemently. 

‘ You gave her this,’ said Dr. May, pointing to the bottle of 
Godfrey’s Cordial. 

lie could say no more, for her master was hurrying back into 
the room. Anger was the first emotion that possessed him, and he 
hardly gave an answer to Dr. May’s question about Flora. ‘ Meta 
is with her ! Where is that woman ? Have you given her up to 
the police ? ’ 

Preston shrieked and sobbed, made incoherent exclamations, 
and was much disposed to cling to the Doctor. 

‘ Silence ! ’ said Dr. May, lifting his hand, and assuming a tone 
and manner that awed them both, by reminding them that death 
was present in the chamber ; and, taking his son-in-law out, and 
shutting the door, he said, in a low voice, ‘ I believe this is no case 
for the police — have mercy on the poor woman.’ 

‘ Mercy — I’ll have no mercy on my child’s murderer ! You 
said she had destroyed my child.’ 

1 Ignorantly.’ 

‘ 1 don’t care for ignorance ! She destroyed her — I’j'l havo 
justice,’ said George, doggedly. 

‘ You shall,’ said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm; ‘ but it 
must be investigated, and you are in no state to investigate. Go 
down-stairs — do not do anything till I come to you.’ 

His peremptory manner imposed on George, who, nevertheless, 
turned round as he went, saying, with a fierce glare in his eyes, 
You will not let her escape.’ 

‘No. Go down — be quiet.’ 

Dr. May returned to Preston, and had to assure her that Mr 


218 


THE DAISY CIIATH. 


Rivers was not gone to call tlie police, before lie could bring her 
to any degree of coherence. She regarded him as her only friend, 
and soon undertook to tell the whole truth, and he perceived that 
it was, indeed, the truth. She had not known that the cordial was 
injurious, deeming it a panacea against fretfulness, precious to 
nurses, but against which ladies always had a prejudice, and, 
therefore, to be kept secret. Poor little Leonora had been very 
fretful and uneasy when Flora’s many avocations had first caused 
her to be set aside, and Preston had had recourse to the remedy 
which, lulling her successfully, was applied with less moderation 
and judgment than would have been shewn by a more experienced 
person, till gradually the poor child became dependent on it for 
every hour of rest. When her mother, at last, became aware of 
her unsatisfactory condition, and spent her time in watching her, 
the nurse being prevented from -continuing her drug, she was of 
course, so miserable without it, that Preston had ventured on pro- 
posing it, to which Mrs. Rivers had replied with displeasure 
sufficient to prevent her from declaring how much she had previously 
given. Preston was in an agony of distress for her little charge, 
as well as of fear for herself, and could hardly understand what her 
error had been. Dr. May soon saw that, though not highly 
principled, her sorrow was sincere, and that she still wept bitterly 
over the consequences of her treatment, when he told her that she 
had nothing to fear from the law, and that he would protect her 
from Mr. Rivers. 

Her confession was hardly over, when Meta knocked at the 
door, pale and frightened. ‘ Oh ! Dr. May, do come to poor Flora ! 
I don’t know what to do, and George is in such a state ! ’ 

Dr. May made a sound of sorrow and perplexity, and Meta, as 
she went down before him, asked, in a low, horror-stricken whisper, 
‘ Did Preston really — ’ 

‘ Not knowingly,’ said Dr. May. ‘ It is the way many children 
have gone ; but I never thought — 

They had come to Flora’s dressing-room. Her bed-room door 
was open, and George was pacing heavily up and down the length 
of both apartments, fiercely indignant. ‘ Well ! ’ said he, advanc- 
ing eagerly on Dr. May, 1 has she confessed ? ’ 

‘ But Flora ! ’ said Dr. May, instead of answering him. 

Flora lay on her bed, her face hidden on her pillow, only now 
and then moaning. 

‘ Flora ! my poor, poor child ! ’ said her father, bending down 
to raise her, and taking her hand. 

She moved away so as to bury her face more completely, but 
there was life in the movement, and he was sufficiently reassured on 
her situation to be able to attend to George, who was only impa- 
tient to rush off to take his revenge. He led him into the outer 
room, where Meta was waiting, and forced upon his unwilling com 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


219 


viction that it was no case for the law. The child had not been 
killed by any one dose, but had rather sunk from the want of stim- 
ulus, to which she had been accustomed. As to any pity for the 
woman, George would not hear of it. She was still, in his eyes, the 
destroyer of his child ; and, when he found the law would afford 
him no vengeance, he insisted that she should be turned out of his 
house at once. 

‘ George ! ’ called a hollow voice from the next room, and, hurry- 
ing back, they saw Flora sitting up, and, as well as trembling limbs 
allowed, endeavoring to rise to her feet, while burning spots were 
in her cheeks. ‘ George, turn me out of the house too ! If Preston 
killed her, I did ! ’ and she gave a ghastly laugh. 

George threw his arms round her, and laid her on her bed again, 
with many fond words, and strength which she had not power to 
withstand. Dr. May, in the meantime, spoke quickly to Meta, in 
the doorway. * She must go. They cannot sec her again ; but has 
she any friends in London ? ’ 

‘ I think not.’ 

‘ Find out. She must not be sent adrift. Send her to the 
Grange, if nothing better offers. You must judge.’ 

He felt that he could confide in Meta’s discretion and prompti- 
tude, and returned to the parents. 

1 Is she gone ? ’ said George, in a whisper, which he meant 
should be unheard by his wife, who had sunk her face on her pillows 
again. 

1 Going. Meta is seeing to it,’ 

1 And that woman gets off free ! ’ cried George, ‘ while my poor 
little girl — ’ and no longer occupied by the hope of retribution, he 
gave way to an overpowering burst of grief. 

His wife did not rouse herself to comfort him, but still lay mo- 
tionless, excepting for a convulsive movement, that passed over her 
frame at each sound from him, and her father felt her pulse bound 
at the same time with corresponding violence, as if each of his deep- 
drawn sobs were a mortal thrust. Going to him, Dr. May endeav- 
ored to repress his agitation, and lead him from the room ; but he could 
not, at first, prevail on him to listen or understand, still less to quit 
Flora. The attempt to force on him the perception that his uncon- 
trolled sorrow was injuring her, and that he ought to bear up for 
her sake, only did further harm; for, when he rose up and tried to 
caress her, there was the same torpid passive resistance, the same 
burying her face from the light, and the only betrayal of conscious- 
ness in the agonized throbs of her pulse. 

He became excessively distressed at being thus repelled, and, at 
last, yielded to the impatient signals of Dr. May, who drew him into 
the next room, and, with brief, strong, though most affectionate and 
pitying words, enforced on him that Flora’s brain — nay, her life, was 
risked, and that he must leave her alone to his care for the present 


220 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


Meta coming back at the same moment, Dr. May put him in her 
charge, with renewed orders to impress on him how much depended 
on tranquillity. 

Dr. May went back, with his soft, undisturbing, physician’s foot- 
fall, and stood at the side of the bed, in such intense anxiety as 
those only can endure who know how to pray, and to pray in resig- 
nation and faith. 

All was still in the darkening twilight ; but the distant roar of 
the world surged without, and a gas-light shone flickering through the 
branches of the trees, and fell on the rich dress spread on the couch, 
and the ornaments on the toilette-table. There was a sense of op- 
pression, and of being pursued by the incongruous world, and Dr. 
May sighed to silence all around, and see his poor daughter in the 
calm of her own country air ; but she had chosen for herself, and 
here she lay, stricken down in the midst of the prosperity that she 
had sought. 

He could hear every respiration, tightened and almost sobbing, 
and he was hesitating whether to run the risk of addressing her ; 
when, as if it had occurred to her suddenly that she was alone and 
deserted, she raised up her head with a startled movement, but, as 
she saw him, she again hid her face, as if his presence were still 
more intolerable than solitude. 

1 Flora ! my own, my dearest — my poor child ! you should not 
turn from me. Do I not carry with me the like self-reproachful 
conviction ? ’ 

Flora let him turn her face towards him and kiss her forehead. 
It was burning, and he brought water and bathed it, now and then 
speaking a few fond, low, gentle words, which, though she did not 
respond, evidently had some soothing effect ; for she admitted his 
services, still, however, keeping her eyes closed, and her face turned 
towards the darkest side of the room. When he went towards the 
door, she murmured, 1 Papa ! 5 as if to detain him. 

‘ I am not going, darling. I only wanted to speak to George.’ 

‘ Don’t let him come ! ’ said Flora. 

c Not till you wish it, my dear.’ 

George’s step was heard ; his hand was on the lock, and again 
Dr. May was conscious of the sudden rush of blood through all her 
veins. He quickly went forward, met him, and shut him out, per- 
suading him, with difficulty, to remain outside, and giving him the 
occupation of sending out for an anodyne — since the best hope, at 
present, lay in encouraging the torpor that had benumbed her 
crushed faculties. 

Her father would not even venture to rouse her to be undressed ; 
he gave her the medicine, and let her lie still, with as little move- 
ment as possible, standing by till her regular breathings shewed that 
she had sunk into a sleep ; when he went into the other room and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 221 

found that George had also forgotten his sorrows in slumlier on the 
sofa, while Meta sat sadly presiding over the tea equipage. 

She came up to meet him, her question expressed in her looks 

‘ Asleep,’ he said , ‘ I hope the pulses are quieter. All depends 
on her wakening.’ 

Poor, poor Flora,’ said Meta, wiping away her tears. 

I What have you done with the woman ? ’ 

I I sent her to Mrs. Larpent’s. I knew she would receive her 
and keep her till she could write to her friends. Bellairs took her, 
but I could hardly speak to her — ’ 

I She did it ignorantly,’ said Dr. May. 

I I could never be so merciful and forbearing as you,’ said Meta. 

* Ah ! my dear, you will never have the same cause ! ’ 

They could say no more, for George awoke, and the argument of 
his exclusion had to be gone through again. He could not enter 
into it by any means ; and when Dr. May would have made him 
understand that poor Flora could not acquit herself of neglect, and 
that even his affection was too painful for her in the present state ; 
he broke into a vehement angry defence of her devotion to her child, 
treating Dr. May as if the accusation came from him ; and when 
the Doctor and Meta had persuaded him out of this, he next im- 
agined that his father-in-law feared that he was going to reproach 
his wife, and there was no making him comprehend more than, that 
if she were not kept quiet, she might have a serious illness. 

Even then, he insisted on going to look at her, and Dr. May 
could not prevent him from pressing his lips to her forehead. She 
half-opened her eyes, and murmured “ good-night,” and by this he 
was a little comforted ; but he would hear of nothing but sitting up, 
and Meta would have done the same, but for an absolute decree of 
the Doctor. 

It was a relief to Dr. May, that George’s vigil soon became a 
sound repose on the sofa in the dressing room ; and he was left to 
read and muse uninterruptedly. 

It was far past two o’clock before there was any movement; then 
Flora drew a long breath, stirred, and, as her father came and drew 
her hand into his, before she was well awake, she gave a long, won- 
dering whisper — c Oh ! papa ! papa ! ’ then sitting up, and passing 
her hand over her eyes, ‘ Is it all true ? ’ 

* It is true, my own poor dear,’ said Dr. May, supporting her, as 
she rested against his arm, and hid her face on liis shoulder, while 
her breath came short, and she shivered under the renewed percep- 
tion, ‘ She is gone to wait for you.’ 

‘ Hush ! Oh don’t ! papa ! ’ said Flora, her voice shortened by 
anguish. ‘ 0, think why — ’ 

‘ Nay, Flora, do not, do not speak as if that should exclude 
peace, or hope ! ’ said Dr. May, entreatingly. ‘ Besides, it was no 
wilful neglect — you had other duties — ’ 


222 


THE 13AISY CHAIN. 


‘You don’t know me, papa!’ said Flora, drawing her hands 
away from him, and tightly clenching them in one another, as 
thoughts far too terrible for words swept over her. 

‘ If I do not, the most Merciful Father does,’ said Dr. May. 
Flora sat for a minute or two, her hands locked together round her 
knees, her head bowed down, her lips compressed. Her father was 
so far satisfied, that the bodily dangers he had dreaded, were averted; 
but the agony of mind was far more terrible, especially in one who 
expressed so little, and in whom it seemed, as it were, pent up. 

‘ Papa ! ’ said Flora, presently, with a resolution of tone as if 
she would prevent resistance ; ‘ I must see her ! ’ 

‘ You shall, my dear,’ said the Doctor, at once • and she seemed 
grateful not to be opposed, speaking more gently, as she said, 

‘ May it be now ? While there is no daylight ! ’ 

‘ If you wish it,’ said Dr. May. 

The dawn, and a yellow waning moon, gave sufficient light for 
moving about, and Flora gained her feet ; but she was weak and 
trembling, and needed the support of her father’s arm, though 
hardly conscious of receiving it, as she mounted the same stairs, 
that she had so often lightly ascended in the like doubtful morning 
light ; for never, after any party, had she omitted her visit to the 
nursery. 

The door was locked, and she looked piteously at her father as 
her weak push met the resistance, and he was somewhat slow in 
turning the key with his left hand. The whitewashed, slightly fur- 
nished room, reflected the light, and the moonbeams shewed the 
window-frame in pale and dim shades on the blinds, the dewy air 
breathed in coolly from the park, and there was a calm solemnity 
in the atmosphere — no light, no watcher present to tend the babe. 
Little Leonora needed such no more; she was with the Keeper, 
who shall neither slumber nor sleep. 

So it thrilled across her grandfather, as he saw the little cradle 
drawn into the middle of the room, and, on the coverlet, some pure 
white rosebuds and lilies of the valley, gathered in the morning by 
Mary and Blanche, little guessing the use that Meta would make of 
them ere nightfall 

The mother sank on her knees, her hands clasped over her 
breast, and rocking herseif to and fro uneasily, with a low, irre- 
pressible moaning. 

1 Will you not see her face ? ’ whispered Dr. May. 

‘ I may not touch her,’ was the answer, in the hollow voice ; 
and, with the wild eye that had before alarmed him, but trusting 
to the soothing power of the mute face of the innocent, he drew 
back the covering. 

The sight was such as he anticipated, sadly lovely, smiling and 
tranquil — all oppression and suffering fled away for ever. 

It stilled the sounds of pain, and the restless motion ; the com- 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


223 


pression of the hands became less tight, and he began to hope that 
the look was passing into the heart. He let her kneel on withou* 
interruption, only once he said, “ Of such is the kingdom of 
Heaven ! ” 

She made no immediate answer, and he had had time to doubt 
whether he ought to let her continue in that exhausting attitude 
any longer, when she looked up and said, ‘ You will all be with her 
there.’ 

‘ She has flown on to poiut your aim more steadfastly,’ said Dr. 
May. 

Flora shuddered, but spoke calmly — ‘ No, 1 shall not meet her. 

‘ My child ! ’ he exclaimed, ‘ do you know what you are saying? ' 

‘ I know, I am not in the way,’ said Flora, still in the same fear- 
fully quiet, matter-of-fact tone. ‘ I never have been’ — and she bent 
over her child, as if taking her leave for eternity. 

His tongue almost clave to the roof of his mouth, as he heard 
the words — words elicited by one of those hours of true reality that, 
like death, rend aside every wilful cloak of self-deceit, and self-ap- 
probation. He had no power to speak at first ; when he recovered 
it, his reply was not what his heart had, at first, prompted. 

‘ Flora ! How has this dear child been saved ? ’ he said. * What 
tias released her from the guilt she inherited through you, through 
me, through all ? Is not the Fountain open ? ’ 

‘ She never wasted grace,’ said Flora. 

‘ My child ! my Flora ! ’ he exclaimed, losing the calmness he 
had gained by such an effort; ‘You must not talk thus — it is 
wrong ! Only your own morbid feeling can treat this — this — as a 
charge against you, and if it were, indeed’ — he sank his voice — 
‘ that such consequences destroyed hope, oh Flora ! where should I 
be?’ 

‘ No,’ said Flora, * this is not what I meant. It is that I have 
never set my heart right. I am not like you nor my sisters. I 
have seemed to myself, and to you, to be trying to do right, but it 
was all hollow, for the sake of praise and credit. I know it, now it 
is too late ; and He has let me destroy my child here, lest I should 
have destroyed her Everlasting Life, like my own.’ 

The most terrible part of this sentence was to Dr. May, that 
Flora spoke as if she knew it all as a certainty, and without appa- 
rent emotion, with all the calmness of despair. What she had 
never guessed before had come clearly and fully upon her now, and 
without apparent novelty, or, perhaps, there had been misgivings in 
the midst of her complacent self-satisfaction. She did not even 
seem to perceive how dreadfully she was shocking her father, whoso 
sole comfort was in believing her language the effect of exaggerated 
self-reproach. His profession had rendered him not new to the 
sight of despondency, and, dismayed as he was, he was able at onco 
to speak to the point. 


224 : 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ If it were indeed so, lier removal would be the greatest blessing. 

‘ Yes,’ said her mother, and her assent was in the same tone ol 
resigned despair, owning it best for her child to be spared a worldl} 
education, and loving her truly enough to acquiesce. 

‘ 1 meant the greatest blessing to you,’ continued Dr. May, ‘ if 
it be sent to open your eyes, and raise your thoughts upwards. 
Oh ! Flora, are not afflictions tokens of infinite love ? ’ 

She could not accept the encouragement, and only formed, with 
her lips, the words, ‘ Mercy to her — wrath to me ! ’ 

The simplicity and hearty piety which, with all Dr. May’s faults, 
had always been part of his character, and had borne him, in faith 
and trust, through all his trials, had never belonged to her. Where 
he had been sincere, erring only from impulsiveness, she had been 
double-minded and calculating ; and, now that her delusion had been 
broken down, she had nothing to rest upon. Her whole religious 
life had been mechanical, deceiving herself more than even others, 
and all seemed now swept away, except the sense of hypocrisy, and 
of having cut herself off, for ever, from her innocent child. Her 
father saw that it was vain to argue with her, and only said, ‘You 
will think otherwise by-and-by, my dear. Now, shall I say a 
prayer before we go down ? ’ 

As she made no reply, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, but she did 
not join ; and then he added a broken, hesitating intercession for 
the mourners, which caused her to bury her face deeper in her 
hands, but her dull wretchedness altered not. 

‘ Rising, he said, authoritatively, ‘ Gome, Flora, you must go to 
bed. See, it is morning.’ 

‘ You have sat up all night with me ! ’ said Flora, with some 
what of her anxious, considerate self. 

‘ So has George. He had just dropped asleep on the sofa when 
you awoke.’ 

‘ I thought he was in anger,’ said she. 

‘ Not with you, dearest.’ 

‘ No, I remember now, not where it was justly due. Papa,’ she 
said, pausing, as to recall her recollection, ‘ what did I do ? I must 
have done something very unkind to make him go away and leave 
me.’ 

‘ I insisted on his leaving you, my dear. You seemed oppressed, 
and his affectionate ways were doing you harm; so I was hard- 
hearted, and turned him out, sadly against his will.’ 

‘ Poor George ! ’ said Flora, ‘ has he been left to bear it alone 
all this time ? How much distressed he must have been. I must 
have vexed him grievously. You don’t guess how fond he was of 
her. I must go to him at once.’ 

‘ That is right, my dear.’ 

‘ Don’t praise me,’ said she, as if she could not bear it. ‘ All 
that is left for me is to do what I can for him.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


225 


Dr. May felt cheered. He was sure that hope must agaiu rise 
out of unselfish love and duty. 

Their return awoke George, who started, half-sitting up, won- 
dering why he was spending the night in so unusual a manner, and 
why Flora looked so pale, in the morning light, with her loosened, 
drooping hair. 

She went straight to him, and, kneeling by his side, said, 
c George, forgive ! ’ The same moment he had caught her to his 
bosom ; but so impressed was his tardy mind, with the peril of talk- 
ing to her, that he held her in his arms without a single word, till Dr. 
May had unclosed his lips — a sign would not suffice — he must have 
a sentence to assure him ; and then it was such joy to have her re- 
stored, and his fondness and solicitude were so tender and eager in 
their clumsiness, that his father-in-law was touched to the heart. 

Flora was quite herself again, in presence of mind and power of 
dealing with him ; and Dr. May left them to each other, and went 
to his own room, for such rest as sorrow, sympathy, and the waken- 
ing city, would permit him. 

When the house was astir for the morning kept by human 
creatures, and the Doctor had met Meta in the breakfast-room, and 
held with her a sad, affectionate conversation, George came down 
with a fair report of his wife, and took her father to see her. 

That night had been like an illness to her, and, though perfectly 
composed, she was feeble and crushed, keeping the room darkened, 
and reluctant to move or speak. Indeed, she did not seem able to 
give her attention to anyone’s voice, except her husband’s. When 
Dr. May, or Meta, spoke to her, she would miss what they said, beg 
their pardon, and ask them to repeat it ; and, sometimes, even then, 
become bewildered. They tried reading to her, but she did not 
seem to listen, and her half-closed eye had the expression of listless 
dejection, that her father knew betokened that, even as last night, 
her heart refused to accept promises of comfort as meant for her. 

For George, however, her attention was always ready, and was 
perpetually claimed. He was forlorn and at a loss without her, 
every moment ; and, in the sorrow which he too felt most acutely, 
could not have a minute s peace unless soothed by her presence ; he 
was dependent on her to a degree which amazed and almost provoked 
the Doctor, who could not bear to have her continually harassed 
and disturbed, and yet was much affected by witnessing so much 
tenderness, especially in Flora, always the cold utilitarian member 
of his family. 

In the middle of the day, she rose and dressed, because George 
was unhappy at having to sit without her, though only in the next 
room. She sat in the large arm-chair, turned away from the 
blinded windows, never speaking nor moving, save when he came to 
her, to make her look at his letters and notes, when she would, with 
the greatest patience and sweetness, revise them, suggest word or 


226 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


sentence, rouse lierself to consider eacli petty detail, and then sink 
back into her attitude of listless dejection. To all besides, she 
appeared totally indifferent ; gently courteous to Meta and to her 
father, when they addressed her, but otherwise shewing little con- 
sciousness whether they were in the room ; and yet, when some- 
thing was passing about her father’s staying or returning, she ros€ 
from her seat, came up to him before he was aware, and said, ‘ Papa ! 
papa ! you will not leave me ! ’ in such an imploring tone, that if 
he had ever thought of quitting her, he could not have done so. 

He longed to see her left to perfect tranquillity, but such could 
not be in London. Though theirs was called a quiet house, the 
rushing stream of traffic wearied his country ears, the door-bell 
seemed ceacelessly ringing, and though Meta bore the brunt of the 
notes and messages, great numbers necessarily came up to Mr. 
Rivers, and of these Flora was not spared one. Dr. May had his 
share too of messages and business, and friends and relations, the 
liivers’ kindred, always ready to take offence with their rich con- 
nections, and who would not be satisfied with enquiries at the door, 
but must see Meta, and would have George fetched down to them 
— old aunts, who wanted the whole story of the child’s illness, and 
came imagining there was something to be hushed up ; Lady Leonora 
extremely polite, but extremely disgusted at the encounter with 
them ; George ready to be persuaded to take everyone up to see 
his wife, and the prohibition to be made by Dr. May over and over 
again — it was a most tedious, wearing afternoon, and at last, when 
the visitors had gone, and George had hurried back to his wife, Dr. 
May threw himself into an arm-chair and said, ‘ Oh ! Meta, sorrow 
weighs more heavily in town than in the country ! ’ 

‘ Yes ! ’ said Meta. ‘ If one only could go out and look at the 
flowers, and take poor Flora up a nosegay ! ’ 

‘ 1 don’t think it would make much difference to her,’ sighed 
the Doctor. 

‘Yes, I think it would,’ said Meta ; ‘ it did to me. The sights 
there speak of the better sights.’ 

‘ The power to look must come from within,’ said Dr. May, 
thinking of his poor daughter. 

‘Aye,’ said Meta, ‘as Mr. Ernesclifife said, “heaven is as 
near — ! ” Rut the skirts of heaven are more easily traced in our 
mountain view, than here, where, if I looked out of window, I should 
only see that giddy string of carriages and people pursuing each 
other ! ’ 

‘ Well, we shall get her home as soon as she is able to move, and 
I hope it may soothe her. What a turmoil it is ! There has not 
been one moment without noise in the twenty-two hours I have been 
here ! 5 

‘ What would you say if you were in the City ? ’ 

‘ Ah ! there’s no talking of it, but if I had been a fashionable 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 227 

London physician, as my father-in-law wanted to make n.e, I should 
have been dead long ago ! ’ 

‘ No, I think you would have liked it very much.’ 

‘ Why ? 5 

‘ Love’s a flower that will not die,’ repeated Meta, half smiling. 
‘ Y ou would have found so much good to do — ’ 

c And so much misery to rend one’s heart,’ said Dr. May. 1 But, 
after all, I suppose there is only a certain capacity of feeling.’ 

‘ It is within, not without, as you said,’ returned Meta. 

1 Ha ! there’s another ! ’ cried Dr. May, almost petulant at the 
sound of the bell again, breaking into the conversation that was a 
great refreshment. 

1 It was Sir Henry Walkinghame’s ring,’ said Meta. £ It is al- 
ways his time of day.’ 

The Doctor did not like it the better. 

Sir Henry sent up a message to ask whether he could see Mr. 
or Miss Divers. 

‘ I suppose we must,’ said Meta, looking at the Doctor. ‘ Lady 
Wilkinghame must be anxious about Flora.’ 

She blushed greatly, fancying that Dr. May was putting his own 
construction on the heightened colour which she could not control. 
Sir Henry came in, just what he ought to be, kindly anxious, but 
not overwhelming, and with a ready, pleased recognition of the 
Doctor, as an old acquaintance of his boyhood. He did not stay 
many minutes ; but there was a perceptible difference between his 
real sympathy and friendly regard only afraid of obtruding, and 
the oppressive curiosity of their former visitors. Dr. May felt it 
due, both from kindness and candour, to say something in his praise 
when he was gone. 

‘ That is a sensible superior man,’ he said. 4 He will be an 
acquisition when he takes up his abode at Dry dale.’ 

1 Yes,’ said Meta — a very simple yes — from which nothing could 
be gathered. 

The funeral was fixed for Monday, the next day but one, at the 
Church where Mr. Divers had been buried. No one was invited to 
be present ; Ethel wrote that, much as she wished it, she could not 
leave Margaret, and, as the whole party were to return home on 
the following day, they should soon see Flora. 

Flora had laid aside all privileges of illness after the first day ; 
she came down-stairs to breakfast and dinner, and though looking 
wretchedly ill, and speaking very low and feebly, she was as much 
as ever the mistress of her house. Her father could never draw her 
into conversation again, on the subject nearest his heart, and could 
only draw the sad conclusion that her state of mind was unchanged, 
from the dreary indifference with which she allowed every word of 
cheer to pass by unheeded, as if she could not bear to look beyond 
the grave. He had some hope in the funeral, which she was bent 


228 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


on attending, and more in the influence of Margaret, and toe coun 
sel of Richard or of Mr. Wilmot. 

The burial, however, failed to bring any peaceful comfort to the 
mourning mother. Meta’s tears flowed freely, as much for her 
father as for her little niece ; and George’s sobs were deep and 
choking ; but Flora, externally, only seemed absorbed in helping 
him to go through with it ; she, herself, never lost her fixed, com- 
posed, hopeless look. 

After her return, she went up to the nursery, and deliberately 
set apart and locked up every possession of her child’s, then, 
coming down, startled Meta by laying her hand on her shoulder 
and saying, ‘ Meta, dear, Preston is in the housekeeper’s room. 
Will you go and speak to her for a moment, to reassure her before 
I come ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! Flora ! ’ 

‘ I sent for her,’ said Flora, in answer. £ I thought it would be 
a good opportunity while George is out. Will you be kind enough 
to prepare her, my dear ? ’ 

Meta wondered how Flora had known whither to send, but she 
could not but obey. Poor Preston was an ordinary sort of woman, 
kind-hearted, and not without a conscience ; but her error had 
arisen from the want of any high religious principle to teach her 
obedience, or sincerity. Her grief was extreme, and she had been 
so completely overcome by the forbearance and consideration shewn 
to her, that she was even more broken-hearted by the thought of 
them, than by the terrible calamity she had occasioned. 

Kind-hearted Mrs. Larpent had tried to console her, as well as to 
turn the misfortune to the best account, and Dr. May had once seen 
her, and striven gently to point out the true evil of the course she 
had pursued. She was now going to her home, and they augured 
better of her, that she had been as yet too utterly downcast to say 
one word of that first thought with a servant, her character. 

Meta found her sobbing uncontrollably at the associations of 
her master’s house, and dreadfully frightened at hearing that she 
was to see Mrs. Rivers; she began to entreat to the contrary 
with the vehemence of a person unused to any self-government ; 
but, in the midst, the low calm tones were heard, and her mistress 
stood before her — her perfect stillness of demeanour, far more 
effective in repressing agitation, than had been Meta’s coaxing at- 
tempts to soothe. 

‘ You need not be afraid to see me, Preston,’ said Flora, kindly. 
‘ I am very sorry for you — you knew no better, and I should not 
have left so much to you.’ 

‘ Oh ! ma’am — so kind — the dear, dear little darling— I shall 
never .forgive myself.’ 

‘ I know you did love her/ continued Flora, ‘ I am sure 


TILE DAISY CHAIN-. 


229 


you intended no harm, and it was my leaving her that made her 
fretful.’ 

Preston tried to thank. 

‘ Only remember henceforth — ’ and the clear tone grow fainter 
than ever, with internal anguish, though still steady, ‘Ptemember 
strict obedience and truth henceforth ; the want of them will have 
worse results by-and-by than even this. Now, Preston, I shall 
always wish you well. I ought not, I believe, to recommend you 
to the like place, without saying why you left me, but for any other 
I will give you a fair character. I will see what I can do for you 
and if you are ever in any distress, I hope you will let me know 
Have your wages been paid ? ’ 

There was a sound in the affirmative, but poor Preston could not 
speak. 1 Good-bye then,’ and Flora took her hand and shook it. 
‘ Mind you let me hear if you want help. Keep this.’ 

Meta was a little disappointed to see sovereigns, instead of a 
book. Flora turned to go, and put her hand out to lean on her 
sister as for support ; she stood still to gather strength before 
ascending the stairs, and a groan of intense misery was wrung from 
her. 

1 Dearest Flora, it has been too much ! ’ 

1 No,’ said Flora, gently. 

1 Poor thing, I am glad for her sake. But might she not have 
a book — a Bible ? ’ 

‘ You may give her one, if you like. I could not.’ 

Flora reached her own room, went in, and bolted the door. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


* O, where dwell yc, my ain sweet bairns? 

I’m woe and weary grown 1 
O, Lady, we live where woe never is, 

Ii. a land to flesh unknown.’ 

Allan Cunningham. 

It had been with a gentle sorrow that Etheldred had expected tc 
go and lay in her resting-place, the little niece, who had been kept 
from the evil of the world, in a manner of which she had little 
dreamt. Poor Flora ! she must be ennobled, she thought, by 
having a child where hers is, when she is able to feel anything but 
the first grief ; and Ethel’s heart yearned to be trying, at least, to 
comfort her, and to be with her father, who had loved his grand- 
child so fondly. 

It Was not to be. Margaret had borne so many shocks with 
such calmness, that Ethel had no especial fears for her ; but there 
are some persons who have less fortitude for others than for them' 


230 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


selves, and she was one of these. Flora had been her own compan? 
ion-sister, and the baby had been the sunbeam of her life, during 
the sad winter and spring. 

In the middle of the night, Ethel knocked at Richard’s door. 
Margaret had been seized with faintness, from which they could not 
bring her back ; and, even when Richard had summoned Dr. Spen- 
cer, it was long ere his remedies took effect ; but, at last, she re- 
vived enough to thank them, and say she was glad that papa was 
not there. 

Dr. Spencer sent them all to bed, and the rest of the night was 
quiet ; but Margaret could not deny, in the morning, that she felt 
terribly shattered, and she was depressed in spirits to a degree such 
as they had never seen in her before. Her whole heart was with 
Flora ; she was unhappy at being at a distance from her, almost 
fretfully impatient for letters, and insisting vehemently on Ethel’s 
going to London. 

Ethel had never felt so helpless and desolate, as with Margaret 
thus changed and broken, and her father absent. 

1 My dear,’ said Dr. Spencer, * nothing can be better for both 
parties than that he should be away. If he were here, he ought to 
leave all attendance to me, and she would suffer from the sight of 
his distress.’ 

‘ I cannot think what he will do or feel ? ’ sighed Ethel. 

‘ Leave it to me. I will write to him, and we shall see hex- 
better before post time.’ 

‘ You will tell him exactly how it was, or I shall,’ said Ethel, 
abruptly, not to say fiercely. 

‘ Ho ! you don’t trust me ? ’ said Dr. Spencer, smiling, so that 
she was ashamed of her speech. 1 You shall speak for yourself, and 
I for myself ; and I shall say that nothing would so much hurt her 
as to have others saci’ificed to hei\’ 

1 That is true,’ said Ethel ; ‘ but she misses papa.’ 

‘ Of course she does ; but, depend on it, she would not have him 
leave your sister, and she is under less restraint without him.’ 

‘ I never saw her like this ! ’ 

1 The di'op has made it overflow. She has repressed more than 
was good for her, and now that her guard is bi'oken down, she gives 
way under the whole weight.’ 

1 Poor Margaret ! I am pertinacious ; but, if she is not better 
by post time, papa will not bear to be away.’ 

4 I’ll tell you what I think of her by that time. Send up yo'ir 
brother Richard, if you wish to do her good. Richard would be a 
much better person to write than yourself. I perceive that he is 
the reasonable member of the family.’ 

‘ Did not you know that before ? ’ 

All I knew of him, till last night, was, that no one could, b} 
any possibility, call him Dick.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


231 


Dr. Spencer was glad to have dismissed Ethel smiling ; and sIk 
was the better able to bear with poor Margaret’s condition of petu- 
lance. She had never before experienced the effects of bodily ail- 
ments on the temper, and she was slow to understand the change in 
one usually so patient and submissive. She was, by turns, dis- 
pleased with her sister and with her own abruptness 5 but, though 
she knew it not, her bluntness had a bracing effect. She though* 
she had been cross in declaring it was nonsense to harp on her going 
to London ; but it made Margaret feel that she had been unreason- 
able, and keep silence. 

Kichard managed her much better, being gentle and firm, and 
less ready to speak than Ethel, and he succeeded in composing her 
into a sleep, which restored her balance, and so relieved Ethel, that 
she not only allowed Dr. Spencer to say what he pleased, but her- 
self made light of the whole attack, little knowing how perilous was 
any shock to that delicate frame. 

Margaret’s whole purpose was to wind herself up for the first 
interview with Flora ; and, though she had returned to her usual 
state, she would not go down-stairs on the evening the party were 
expected, believing it would be more grateful to her sister’s feelings 
to meet her without witnesses. 

The travellers arrived, and Dr. May hurried up to her. She 
barely replied to his caresses and enquiries in her eagerness to hear 
of Flora, and to convince him that he must not forbid the meeting. 
Nor had he any mind so to do. ‘ Surely,’ said he, when he had 
seen the spiritualized look of her glistening blue eyes, the flush on 
her transparent cheeks, and her hands clasped over her breast, 
4 surely poor Flora must feel as though an angel were waiting to 
comfort her.’ 

Flora came, but there was sore disappointment. Fond and 
cendcr she was as ever, but, neither by word nor gesture, would 
she admit the most remote allusion to her grief. She withdrew 
her hand when Margaret’s pressure became expressive ; she avoided 
her eye, and spoke incessantly of indifferent subjects. All the 
time, her voice was low and hollow, her face had a settled expres- 
sion of wretchedness, and her glances wandered drearily and rest- 
lessly anywhere but to Margaret’s face ; but her steadiness of man- 
ner was beyond her sister’s power to break, and her visit was 
shortened on account of her husband. Poor George had quite given 
way at the sight of Gertrude, whom his little girl had been thought 
to resemble ; and, though Dr. May had soothed him almost like a 
child, no one put any trust in his self-control, and all sat round, 
fearing each word or look, till Flora came down-stairs, and they 
departed. 

~ llichard and Ethel each offered to go with them ; they could 
not bear to think of their spending that first evening in their child- 
less home, but Flora gently, but decidedly, refused ; and Dr. May 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


232 

said that, much as he wished to he with them, he believed thal 
Flora preferred liaviug no one but Meta. 1 I hope I have done 
Margaret no harm,’ were Flora’s last words to him, and they seemed 
to explain her guarded manner ; but he found Margaret weeping as 
she had never wept for herself, and palpitation and faintness were 
the consequence. 

Ethel looked on at Flora as a sad and perplexing mystery 
during the weeks that ensued. There were few opportunities of 
being alone together, and Flora shrank from such as there were — 
nay, she checked all expression of solicitude, and made her very 
kisses rapid and formal. 

The sorrow that had fallen on the Grange seemed to have 
changed none of the usual habits there — visiting, riding, driving, 
dinners, and music, went on with little check. Flora was sure to 
be found the animated, attentive lady of the house, or else sharing 
her husband’s pursuits, helping him with his business, or assisting 
him in seeking pleasure, spending whole afternoons at the coach- 
maker’sj over a carriage that they were building, and, it was reported, 
playing ecarte in the evening. 

Had grief come to be forgotten and cast aside without effecting 
any mission ? Yet Ethel could not believe that the presence of the 
awful messenger was unfelt, when she heard poor George’s heavy 
sigh, or when she looked at Flora’s countenance, and heard the 
peculiar low, subdued tone of her voice, which, when her words 
were most cheerful, always seemed to Ethel the resigned accent of 
despair. 

Ethel could not talk her over with Margaret, for all seemed to 
make it a point that Margaret should believe the best. Dr. May 
turned from the subject with a sort of shuddering grief, and said, 
‘ Don’t talk of her, poor child — only pray for her I’ 

Ethel, though shocked by the unwonted manner of his answer, 
was somewhat consoled by perceiving that a double measure of ten- 
derness had sprung up between her father and his poor daughter. 
If Flora had seemed, in her girlhood, to rate him almost cheaply 
this was at an end now ; she met him as if his embrace were peace, 
the gloom was lightened, the attention less strained, when he was 
beside her, and she could not part with him without pressing for a 
speedy meeting. Yet, she treated him with the same reserve ; since 
that one ghastly revelation of the secrets of her heart, the veil had 
been closely drawn, and he could not guess whether it had been but 
a horrible thought, or were still an abiding impression. Ethel could 
gather no more than that her father was very unhappy about Mora, 
and that Richard understood why ; for Richard had told her that 
he had written to Mora, to try to persuade her to cease from this 
reserve, but that he had no reply. 

Norman was not at home ; he had undertaken the tutorship of 


THE DAISY CIIAEST. 233 

two school-boys for the holidays ; and his father owned, with a sigh, 
that he was doing wisely. 

As to Meta, she was Ethel’s chief consolation, by the redoubled 
assurances, directed to Ethel’s unexpressed dread, lest Flora should 
be rejecting the chastening Hand. Meta had the most absolute 
certainty that Flora’s apparent cheerfulness was all for George’s 
sake, and that it was a most painful exertion. ‘ If Ethel could only 
see how she let herself sink together as it were, and her whole coun- 
tenance relax, as soon as he was out of sight,’ Meta said, 1 she could 
not doubt what misery these efforts were to her.’ 

I Why does she go on with them ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ George,’ said Meta. ‘ What would become of him without 
her ? If he misses her for ten minutes, he roams about lost, and 
he cannot enjoy anything without her. I cannot think how he can 
help seeing what hard work it is, and how he can be contented with 
those dreadful sham smiles ; but as long as she can give him plea- 
sure, poor Flora will toil for him.’ 

‘ It is very selfish,’ Ethel caught herself saying. 

‘ No, no, it is not.,’ cried Meta. 1 It is not that he will not see, 
but that he cannot see. Good honest fellow, he really thinks it 
does her good and pleases her. I was so sorry one evening when 
I tried to take her place at that perpetual ecarte , and told him it 
teased her ; he went so wistfully to her, and asked whether it did, 
and she exerted herself into such painful enjoyment to persuade him 
to the contrary ; and afterwards she said to me, “ Let me alone, 
dearest — it is the only thing left me.” ’ 

‘ There is something in being husband and wife that one cannot 
understand,’ slowly said Ethel, so much in her quaint way, that 
Meta laughed. 

Had it not been for Norman’s absence, Ethel would, in the warm 
sympathy and accustomed manner of Meta ftivers, have forgotten 
all about the hopes and fears that, in brighter days, had centred on 
that small personage ; until one day, as she came home from Cocks- 
moor, she found “ Sir Henry Walkinghame’s” card on the drawing- 
room table. 1 1 should like to bite you ! Coming here, are you V ’ 
was her amiable reflection ! 

Meta, in her riding-habit, peeped out of Margaret’s room. O 
Ethel, there you are ! It is such a boon that you did not come 
home sooner, or we should have had to ride home with him ! I 
heard him asking for the Miss Mays ! And now I am in hopes 
that he will go home without falling in with Flora and George.’ 

I I did not know he was in these parts.’ 

< He came to Dry dale last week, but the place is forlorn, and 
George gave him a general invitation to the Grange.’ 

‘ Do you like him ? ’ said Ethel, while Margaret looked on, 
amazed at her audacity. 

' I liked him very much in London,’ said Meta ; ‘ he is pleasant 


234 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


enough to talk to, but somehow, he is not congruous here — if yon 
understand me. And I think his coming oppresses Flora — she 
turned quite pale when he was announced, and her voice was lower 
than ever when she spoke to him.’ 

‘ Does he come often ? ’ said Ethel. 

‘ I don’t think he has anything else to do,’ returned Meta, ‘ foi 
our house cannot be as pleasant as it was ; but he is very kind to 
George, and for that we must be grateful. One thing I am afraid 
of, that he will persuade us oif to the yachting after all.’ 

‘ Oh ! ’ was the general exclamation. 

‘Yes,’ said Meta. ‘ George seemed to like the plan, and I very 
much fear that he is taking a dislike to the dear old Grange. I 
heard him say, “ anything to get away.” ’ 

‘ Poor George, I know he is restless,’ said Margaret. 

‘ At least,’ said Ethel, ‘ you can’t go till after your birthday, 
Miss Heiress.’ 

‘ No, uncle Cosham is coming,’ said Meta. ‘ Margaret, you 
must have your stone laid before we go ! ’ 

‘ Dr. Spencer promises it before Hector’s holidays are over,’ said 
Margaret, blushing, as she always did, with pleasure, when they 
talked of the Church. 

Hector Ernesclitfe had revived Margaret wonderfully. She was 
seldom down-stairs before the evening, and Ethel thought his 
habit of making her apartment his sitting-room, must be as incon- 
venient to her, as it was to herself ; but Hector could not be de 
trop for Margaret. She exerted herself to fulfil for him all the 
little sisterly offices that, with her brothers, had been transferred 
to Ethel and Mary ; she threw herself into all his schemes, tried to 
make him endure Captain Gordon, and she even read his favourite 
book of Wild Sports, though her feelings wore constantly lacerated 
by the miseries of the slaughtered animals. Her couch was to him 
as a home, and he had awakened her bright soft liveliness which 
had been only dimmed for a time. 

The Church was her other great interest, and Dr. Spencer 
humoured her by showing her all his drawings, consulting her on 
every ornament, and making many a perspective elevation, merely 
that she might see the eflect. 

Richard and Tom made it their recreation to construct a model 
of the Church as a present for her, and Tom developed a genius for 
carving, which proved a beneficial interest to keep him from surli- 
ness. He had voluntarily propounded his intended profession to his 
father, who had been so much pleased by his choice, that he could 
not but be gratified ; though now and then ambitious fancies, and 
discontent with Stoneborough, combined to bring on his ordinary 
moody fits, the more, because his habitual reserve prevented anyone 
from knowing what was working in his mind. 

Finally, the Rivers’ party announced their intention of going to 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


235 


the Isle of Wight as soon as Meta had come of age ; and the coun- 
cil of Cocksmoor, meeting at tea at Dr. May’s house, decided that 
the Foundation Stone of the Church should be laid on the day after 
her birthday, when there would be a gathering of the whole family, 
as Margaret wished. Dr. Spencer had worked incredibly hard to 
bring it forward, and Margaret’s sweet smiles, and liquid eyes, ex 
pressed how personally thankful she felt. 

‘ What a blessing this Church has been to that poor girl,’ said 
Dr. Spencer, as he left the house with Mr. Wilmot. ‘ How it be- 
guiles her out of her grief ! I am glad she has the pleasure of the 
foundation ; I doubt if she will see the Consecration.’ 

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Wilmot, shocked. ‘Was that attack so 
serious ? ’ 

r That recumbent position and want of exercise were certain to 
produce organic disease, and suspense and sorrow have hastened it. 
The death of Mrs. Rivers’s poor child was the blow that called it 
into activity, and, if it last more than a year, I shall be surprised.’ 

‘ For such as she is, one cannot presume to wish, but her father 
—-Is he aware of this ? ’ 

‘ He knows there is extensive damage ; I think he does not open 
his eyes to the result, but he will bear it. Never was there a man 
to whom it came so naturally to live like the fowls of the air, or 
the lilies of the field, as it does to dear Dick May,’ said Dr. Spencer, 
his voice faltering. 

‘ There is a strength of faith and love in him, that carries him 
through all,’ said Mr. Wilmot. ‘ His childlike nature seems to have 
the trustfulness that is, in itself, consolation. You said how Cocks* 
moor had been blessed to Margaret — I think it is the same with 
them all — not only Ethel and Richard, who have been immediately 
concerned ; but that one object has been a centre and aim to elevate 
the whole family, and give force and unity to their efforts. Even 
the good Doctor, much as I always looked up to him — much good 
as he did me in my young days — I must confess that he was some- 
times very provoking.’ 

‘ If you had tried to be his keeper at Cambridge, you might say 
so ! ’ rejoined Dr. Spencer. 

‘ He is so much less impetuous — more consistent — less desultory; 
I dare say you understand me,’ said Mr. Wilmot. ‘ His good 
qualities do not entangle one another as they used to do.’ 

‘ Exactly so. He was far more than I looked for when I came 
home, though I might have guessed that such a disposition, backed 
by such principles and such — could not but shake off all the dross.’ 

‘ One thing was ’ said Mr. Wilmot, smiling, ‘ that a man must take 
himself in hand, at some time in his life, and Dr. May only began 
to think himself responsible for himself, when he lost his wife, who 
was wise for both. She was an admirable person, but not easy to 
know well. I think you knew her at — ’ 


236 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


< 1 say,’ interrupted Dr. Spencer, ‘ it strikes me that we could 
not do better than get up our S. P. G. demonstration on the day 
of the stone — ’ 

Hitherto the Stoneborough subscribers to the Society for tho 
Propagation of the Gospel had been few and far between ; but, under 
the new dynasty, there was a talk of forming an association, and 
having a meeting to bring the subject forward. Dr. Spencer’s pro- 
posal, however, took the V icar by surprise. 

‘ Never could there be a better time,’ he argued. You have 
naturally a gathering of Clergy — people ought to be liberal on such 
an occasion, and, as Cocksmoor is provided for, why not give the 
benefit to the missions, in their crying need.’ 

1 True, but there is no time to send for anyone to make a speech.’ 

( Husband your resources. What could you have better than 
young Harry and his islanders ? 

‘ Harry would never make a speech.’ 

‘ Let him cram Norman. Young Lake tells me Norman made a 
great sensation at the Union at Oxford, and if his heart is in the 
work, he must not shrink from the face of his townsmen.’ 

‘ No doubt, he had rather they were savages,’ said the Vicar. 

4 And yourself — you will tell them of the Indian Missions.’ 

‘ With all my heart,’ said Dr. Spencer. ‘ When my Brahminhee 
Godson — the Deacon I told you of, comes to pay me his promised 
visit, what doing^ we shall have ! Seriously, I have just had letters 
from him and from others, that speak of such need, that I could feel 
every moment wasted that is not spent on their behalf.’ 

Mr. Wilmot was drawn into Dr. Spencer’s house, and heard the 
letters, till his heart burnt within him. 

The meeting was at once decided upon, though Ethel could not 
see why people could not give without speechifying, and her two 
younger brothers declared it was humbug — Tom saying, he wished 
all blackamoors were out of creation, and Harry, that he could not 
stand palaver about his friend David. Dr. May threatened him 
with being displayed on the platform as a living instance of tho 
effects of Missions, at which he took alarm, and so seriously declared 
that he should join the Bucephalus at once, that they pacified him 
by promising that he should do as he pleased. 

The Archdeacon promised a Sermon, and the active Dr. Spencer 
worked the Nine Muses and all the rest of the town and neighbour- 
hood into a state of great enthusiasm and expectation. He went to 
the Grange, as he said, to collect his artillery ; prime Flora that she 
might prime the M. P. ; made the willing Meta promise to entrap 
the uncle, who was noted for philanthropical speeches ; and himself 
captured Sir Henry Walkinghame, who looked somewhat rueful at 
what he found incumbent on him as a country gentleman, though 
there might be some compensation in the eagerness of Miss llivers. 

Norman had hardly set foot in Stoneborough before he was told 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


237 


what was in Store for him, and, to the general surprise, submitted as 
if it were a very simple matter. As Dr. Spencer told him, it was 
only a fo-etaste of the penalty which every Missionary has to pay for 
coming to England. Norman was altogether looking much better 
than when he had been last at home, and his spirits were more even. 
He had turned his whole soul to the career he had chosen, cast his 
disappointment behind him, or, more truly, made it his offering, and 
gathethered strength and calmness, with which he set out on tasks of 
woiking for others, with thoughts too much absorbed on them, to 
give way to the propensity of making himself the primary object of 
study and contemplation. The praise of God, and love of man were 
the best cures for tendencies like his, and he had found it out. His 
calm, though grave cheerfulness came as a refreshment to those who 
had been uneasy about him, and mournfully watching poor Flora. 

‘Yes,’ said Dr. Spencer, ‘you have taken the best course for 
your own happiness.’ 

Norman coloured as if he understood more than met the ear. 

Mary and Blanche were very busy preparing presents for Meta 
Divers, and everyone was anxious to soften her to the thought of 
this first birthday without her father. Each of the family contributed 
some pretty little trifle, choice in workmanship or kind in device, 
and each was sealed and marked with the initials of the giver, and 
packed up by Mary, to be committed to Flora’s charge. Blanche 
had, however, much trouble in extracting a gift from Norman, and 
he only yielded at last, on finding that all his brothers had sent some- 
thing, so that his omission would be marked. Then he dived into 
the recesses of his desk, and himself sealed up a little parcel, of 
which he would not allow his sisters to inspect the contents. 

Ethel had a shrewd guess. She remembered his having, in the 
flush of joy at Margaret’s engagement, rather prematurely caused a 
seal to be cut with a Daisy, and “ Pearl in the meadow ” as the 
motto ; and his having said that he should keep it as a wedding 
present. She could understand that he was willing to part with' it 
without remark. 

Flora met Meta in her sitting room, on the morning of the day, 
which rose somewhat sadly upon the young girl, as she thought of 
past affection and new responsibilities. If the fondness of a sister 
could have compensated for what she had lost, Meta received it in 
no scanty measure from Flora, who begged to call George, because 
he would be pleased to see the display of gifts. 

His own was the only costly one — almost all the rest were home- 
made treasures of the greater price, because the skill and fondness of 
the maker were evident in their construction ; and Meta took homo 
the kindness as it was meant, and felt the affection that would not 
let her feel herself lonely. She only wished to go and thank them 
all at once. 

‘ Do then,’ said Flora. ‘ If Lord Cosham will spare you, and 


238 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


your business should be over in time, you could drive in, and try to 
bring papa home with you.’ 

‘ 0 thank you, Flora. That is a kind treat, in case the morn- 
ing should be very awful 1 ’ 

Margaret Agatha Rivers signed her documents, listened to ex- 
planations, and was complimented by her uncle on not thinking it 
necessary to be senseless on money matters, like her cousin, Agatha 
Langdale. 

Still she looked a little oppressed, as she locked. up the tokens of 
her wealth, and the sunshine of her face did not beam out again till 
she arrived at Stoneborough, and was dispensing her pretty thanks 
to the few she found at home. 

1 Ethel out and Norman ? His seal is only too pretty — 

‘ They are all helping Dr. Spencer at Cocksmoor.’ 

‘ What a pity ! But it is so very kind of him to treat me as a 
Daisy. In some ways I like his present for that the best of all,’ 
said Meta. 

‘ I will tdl him so,’ said Mary. 

Yes — no ’ — said Meta. ‘ 1 am not pretending to be anything 
half so nice.’ 

Mary and Blanche fell upon her for calling herself anything but 
the nicest flower in the world ; and she contended that she was 
nothing better than a parrot-tulip, stuck up in a parterre ; and just 
as the discussion was becoming a game of romps, Dr. May came in, 
and the children shouted to him to say whether his humming-bird 
were a Daisy or a Tulip. 

‘ That is as she comports herself,’ he said, playfully. 

‘ Which means that you don’t think her quite done for,’ said Meta. 

‘ Not quite,’ said the Doctor, with a droll intonation; ‘but I have 
not seen what this morning may have done to her.’ 

‘ Come and see, then,’ said Meta. ‘ Flora told me to bring you 
home — and it is my birthday, you know. Never mind waiting to 
tell Ethel. Margaret will let her know that I’ll keep you out of 
mischief.’ 

As usual, Dr. May could not withstand her^— and she carried him 
off in triumph in her pony carriage. 

‘ Then you don’t give me up yet ? ’ was the first thing she said, 
as they were off the stones. 

‘ What have you been doing to make me ? ’ said he. 

‘ Doing or not doing — one or the other,’ she said. ‘ But indeed 
I wanted to have you to myself. I am in a great puzzle ! ’ 

‘ Sir Henry ! I hope she won’t consult me ! ’ thought Dr. May, 
as he answered, ‘ Well, my dear.’ 

‘ I fear it is a lasting puzzle,’ she said. ‘ What shall I do with 
all this money ? ’ 

‘ Keep it in the Bank, or buy railway shares ? ’ said Dr. May, 
looking arch. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


23S 


‘ Tliank you. That’s a question for my cousins in the City. I 
want you to answer me as no one else can do. I want to know what 
is my duty now that I have my means in my own hands ? ’ 

I There is need enough around — ’ 

I I do not mean only giving a little here and there, but I want 
you to hear a few of my thoughts. Flora and George are kindness 
itself — but, you see, I have no duties. They are obliged to live a 
gay sort of life — it is their position ; but I cannot make out whether 
it is mine. I don’t see that I am like those girls who have to go out 
as a matter of obedience.’ 

Dr. May considered, but could only say, * You are very young.’ 

‘ Too young to be independent,’ sighed Meta. 1 I must grow old 
enough to be trusted alone, and in the mean time — ’ 

‘ Probably an answer will be found,’ said the Doctor. 1 You and 
your means will find their — their vocation.’ 

‘ Marriage,’ said Meta, calmly speaking the word that he haC 
avoided. ‘ I think not.’ 

I Why ? ’ — he began. 

I I do not think good men like heiresses.’ 

He became strongly interested in a corn-field, and she resumed, 
1 Perhaps I should only do harm. It may be my duty to wait. All 
I wish to know is, whether it is ? ’ 

1 1 see you are not like girls who know their duty, and are rest- 
less, because it is not the duty they like.’ 

‘ Oh ! I like everything. It is my liking it so much that makes 
me afraid.’ 

1 Even going to Hyde ? ’ 

1 Don’t I like the sailing ? and seeing Harry too ? I don’t fed 
as if that were waste, because I can sometimes spare poor Flora a 
little. We could not let her go alone.’ 

1 You need never fear to be without a mission of comfort,’ said 
Dr. May. Your “ spirit full of glee” was given you for something. 
Your presence is far more to my poor Flora than you or she guess.’ 

‘ I never meant to leave her now,’ said Meta, earnestly. ‘ I only 
wished to be clear whether I ought to seek for my work.’ 

‘ It will seek you, when the time comes.’ 

1 And meantime I must do what comes to hand, and take it as 
humiliation that it is not in the more obviously blessed tasks ! A 
call might come, as Cocksmoor did to Ethel. But, oh ! my money ! 
Ought it to be laid up for myself? ’ 

‘ For your call, when it comes,’ said Dm May, smiling — then 
gravely, ‘ There are but too many calls for the interest. The prin- 
cipal is your trust, till the time comes.’ 

Meta smiled, and was pleased to think that her first-fruits would 
be offered to-morrow 
24 


240 


THE DAISY CHAIM. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

4 0 dear ! ’ sighed Etheldred, as she fastened her white muslin, 4 I’m 
afraid it is my nature to hate my neighbour ! ’ 

4 My dear Ethel, what is coming next ? ’ said Margaret. 

1 1 like my neighbour at home, and whom I have to work for, very 
much,’ said Ethel, 4 but oh ! my neighbour that I have to be civil to ! ’ 

1 Poor old King ! I am afraid your day will be spoilt with all your 
toils as lady of the house. I wish I could help you.’ 

1 Let me have my grumble out, and you will ! ’ said Ethel. 

1 Indeed I am sorry you have this bustle, and so many to entertain, 
when I know you would rather have the peaceful feelings belonging 
to the day undisturbed. I should like to shelter you up here.’ 

4 It is very ungrateful of me,’ said Ethel, 4 when Hr. Spencer works 
so hard for us, not to be willing to grant anything to him.’ 

4 And — but then I have none of the trouble of it — I can’t help 
liking the notion of sending out the Church to the island whence the 
Church came home to us.’ 

4 Yes — ’ said Ethel , 1 if we could do it without holding forth ! ’ 

4 Come, Ethel, it is much better than the bazaar — it is no field 
for vanity.’ 

4 Certainly not,’ said Ethel. 4 What a mess everyone will make ! 

0 if I could but stay away, like Harry ! There will be Hr. Hoxton 
being sonorous and prosy, and Mr. Lake will stammer, and that will 
be nothing to the misery of our own people’s work. George will 
flounder, and look at Flora, and she will sit with her eyes on the 
ground, and Hr. Spencer will come out of his proper self, and. be 
complimentary to people who deserve it no more ! — And Norman — 

1 wish I could run away ! ’ 

4 Richard says we do not guess how well Norman speaks.’ 

4 Richard thinks Norman can do anything he can’t do himself ! 
It is all chance — he may do very well, if he gets into his 44 funny 
state” but he always suffers for that, and he will certainly put one 
into an agony at the outset. I wish Hr. Spencer would have let him 
alone ! And then there will be that Sir Henry, whom I can’t abide ! 
Oh ! I wish I were more charitable, like Miss B racy, and Mary, who 
will think all so beautiful.’ 

4 So will you, when you come home,’ said Margaret. 

4 If I could only bq talking to Cherry, and Hame Hall ! I think 
the school children enter into it very nicely, Margaret. Hid I tell 
you how nicely Ellen Reid answered about the Hymn, 44 From 
Greenland’s icy mountains? ” She did not seem to have made it a 
mere geographical lesson, like Fanny Grigg — ’ 

Ethel’s misanthropy was happily conducted off via the Cocksmoor 
children, and any lingering remains were dissipated by her amuse- 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


241 


ment at Dr. Spencer’s ecstasy on seeing Dr. May assume his red 
robe of office, to go to the Minster in state, with the Town Council. 
He walked round and round his friend, called him Nicholas Randall 
redivivus , quoted Dogberry, and affronted Gertrude, who had a dim 
idea that he was making game of papa ! 

Ethel was one of those to whom representation was such a 
penance, that a festival, necessitating hospitality to guests of her own 
rank, was burthen enough seriously to disturb the repose of thank- 
fulness for the attainment of her object, and to render difficult the 
recueillement which she needed for the praise and prayer that she 
felt due from her, and which seemed to oppress her heart, by a 
sense of the inadequacy of her partial expression. It was well for her 
that the day began with the calm service in the Minster, where it 
was her own fault if cares haunted her, and she could confess the sin 
of her irritated sensations, and wishes to have all her own way, and 
then, as ever, be led aright into thanksgiving for the unlooked for 
crowning of her labours. 

The Archdeacon’s sermon amplified what Margaret had that 
morning expressed, so as to carry on her sense of appropriateness in 
the offerings of the day being bestowed on distant lands. 

But the ordeal was yet to come, and though blaming herself, she 
was anything but comfortable, as the world repaired to the Town-hall, 
the room where the same faces so often met for such diverse purposes 
— now an orrery displayed by a conceited lecturer, now a ball, now a 
magistrates’ meeting, a concert or a poultry shew, where rival 
Hamburgh and Dorking uplifted their voices in the places of Mario 
and Grisi, all beneath the benignant portrait of Nicholas Randall, 
ruffed, robed, square-toed, his endowment of the scholarship in his 
hand, and a chequered pavement at his feet. 

Who knows not an S. P. G. meeting ? the gaiety of the serious, 
and the first public spectacle to the young, who, like Blanche and 
Aubrey, gaze with admiration at the rows of bonnets, and with awe 
at the black coats on the platform, while the relations of the said 
black coats suffer, like Ethel, from nervous dread of the public 
speaking of their best friends. 

Her expectations were realized by the Archdeacon’s speech, 
which went round in a circle, as if he could not find his way out of it. 
Lord Cosham was fluent, but a great many words went to very small 
substance ; and no wonder, thought Ethel, when all they had to propose 
and second was the obvious fact that Missions were very good things. 

Dr. Hoxton pompously, Sir Henry Walkinghame creditably, 
assisted the ladies and gentlemen to resolve that the S. P. G. wanted 
help ; Mr. Lake made a stammering, and Mr. Rivers, with his good- 
natured face, hearty manner, and good voice, came in well after him, 
with a straightforward speech, so brief, that Ethel gave Plora credit 
for the best she had yet heard. 

Mr. Wilmot said something which the sharpest ears in the front 


242 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


row might, perhaps, have heard, and which resulted in Dr. Spencer 
standing up. Ethel hardly would have known who was speaking 
had her eyes been shut. His voice was so different, when raised 
and pitched, so as to shew its power and sweetness ; the fine polish 
of his manner was redoubled, and every sentence had the most 
graceful turn. It was like listening to a well-written book, so 
smooth and so fluent, and yet so earnest — his pictures of Indian life 
so beautiful, and his strong affection for the converts he described 
now and then making his eyes fill, and his voice falter, as if losing 
the thread of his studied composition — a true and dignified work of 
art, that made Dr. May whisper to Flora, “ You see what he can 
do. They would have given anything to have had him for a 
lecturer.” 

With half a sigh, Ethel saw Norman rise, and step forward. He 
began with eyes fixed on the ground, and, in a low modest tone, to 
speak of the islands that Harry had visited ; but gradually the 
poetic nature, inherent in him, gained the mastery ; and though his 
language was strikingly simple, in contrast with Dr. Spencer’s ornate 
periods, and free from all trace of “ the lamp,” it rose in beauty and 
fervour at every sentence. The feelings that had decided his lot 
gave energy to his discourse, and repressed as they had been by 
reserve and diffidence, now flowed forth, and gave earnestness to 
natural gifts of eloquence of the highest order. After his quiet, 
unobtrusive beginning, there was the more wonder to find how he 
seemed to raise up the audience with him, in breathless attention, 
as to a strain of sweet music, carrying them without thought of the 
scene, or of the speaker, to the lovely isles, and the inhabitants of 
noble promise, but withering for lack of knowledge; and finally 
closing his speech, when they were wrought up to the highest pitch, 
by an appeal that touched them all home ; 1 for well did he know,’ 
said he , 1 that the universal brotherhood was drawn closest in circles 
nearer home, that beneath the shadow of their own old Minster, 
gladness and mourning floated alike for all; and that all those 
who had shared in the welcome to one, given back as it were from 
the grave, would own the same debt of gratitude to the hospitable 
islanders.’ 

He ceased. His father wiped his spectacles, and almost audibly 
murmured, “ Bless him ! ” Ethel, who had sat like one enchanted, 
forgetting who spoke, forgetting all save the islanders, half-turned, 
and met Richard’s smiling eyes, and his whisper — “ I told you so.” 

The impress of a man of true genius and power had been made 
throughout the whole assembly ; the Archdeacon put Norman out of 
countenance by the thanks of the meeting, for his admirable speech, 
and all the world, except the Oxford men, were in a state of as 
much surprise as pleasure. 

‘ Splendid speaker, Norman May, if he would oftener put himself 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


243 


0 vit,’ Harvey Anderson commented. ‘ Pity he has so many of tho 
good Doctor’s prejudices ! ’ 

‘ Well, to be sure ! ’ quoth Mrs. Ledwich. ‘ I knew Mr. Nor- 
man was very clever, but I declare I never thought of such as this ! 
I will try my poor utmost for those interesting natives.’ 

1 That youth has first-rate talents,’ said Lord Cosham. 1 Do you 
know what he is designed for? I should like to bring him 
forward.’ 

‘ Ah ! ’ said Dr. Hoxton. ‘ The year I sent off May and 
Anderson was the proudest year of my life ! ’ 

‘ Upon my word ! ’ declared Mrs. Elwood. 1 That Dr. Spencer 

is as good as a book, but Mr. Norman I say, father we will go 

without the new clock, but we’ll send somewhat to they men that 
built up the Church, and has no Minister.’ 

‘A good move that,’ said Dr. Spencer. ‘ Worth at least £20. 
That boy has the temperament of an orator, if the morbid were but 
a grain less.’ 

‘ 0 Margaret,’ exclaimed Blanche. ‘ Dr. Spencer made the 
finest speech you ever heard, only it was rather tiresome ; and 
Norman made everybody cry — and Mary worse than all ! ’ 

1 There is no speaking of it. One should live such things, not 
talk over them,’ said Meta Divers. 

Margaret received the reports of the select few, who visited her 
up-stairs, where she was kept quiet, and only heard the hum of the 
swarm, whom Dr. May, in vehement hospitality, had brought 
home to luncheon, to Ethel’s great dread, lest there should not be 
enough for them to eat. 

Margaret pitied her sisters but heard that all was going well; 
that Flora was taking care of the elders, and Harry and Mary were 
making the younger fry very merry at the table on the lawn. Dr. 
May had to start early to see a sick gardener at Dry dale before 
coming on to Cocksmoor, and came up to give his daughter a few 
minutes. 

1 We get on famously,’ he said. 1 Ethel does well when she is 
in for it, like Norman. I had no notion what was in the lad. They 
are perfectly amazed with his speech. It seems hard to give such 
as he is up to those outlandish places — but there, his speech should 
have taught me better — one’s best — and, now and then, he seems 
my best.’ 

1 One comfort is,’ said Margaret, smiling, ‘ you would miss Ethel 
more.’ 

‘ Gallant old King ! I am glad she has had her wish — Good-bye, 
my Margaret, we will think of you — I wish — ’ 

< I am very happy,’ was Margaret’s gentle re-assurance. ‘ The 
dear little Daisy looks just as her godfather imagined her — ’ and 
happy was her face when her father quitted her. 

Margaret’s next visitor was Meta, who came to reclaim her 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


244 


bonnet, and, with a merry smile, to leave word that she was walking 
on to Cocksmoor. Margaret remonstrated on the heat. 

‘ Let me alone,’ said she, making her pretty wilful gesture. 
‘ Ethel and Mary ought to have a lift, and I have had no walking 
to-day.’ 

I My dear, you don’t know how far it is. You can’t go alone.’ 

‘ I am lying in wait for Miss Bracy, or something innocent,’ said 

Meta. ‘ In good time — here comes Tom.’ 

Tom entered, declaring that he had come to escape from the 
clack down-stairs. 

‘ I’ll promise not to clack, if you will be so kind as to take care 
of me to Cocksmoor,’ said Meta. 

‘ Do you intend to walk ? ’ 

‘ If you will let me be your companion.’ 

I I shall be most happy,’ said Tom, colouring with gratification, 
such as he might not have felt, had he known that he was chosen 
for his innocence. 

He took a passing glimpse at his neck-tie, screwed up the nap 
of his glossy hat to the perfection of its central point, armed himself 
with a knowing little stick, and hurried his fair companion out by 
the back-door, as much afraid of losing the glory of being her sole 
protector as she was of falling in with an escort of as much conse- 
quence, in other eyes, as was Mr. Thomas in his own. 

She knew him less than any of the rest, and her first amusement 
was, keeping silence to punish him for complaining of clack ; but 
he explained that he did not mean quiet, sensible conversation — he 
only referred to those foolish women’s raptures over the gabble 
they had been hearing at the Town Hall. 

She exclaimed, whereupon he began to criticise the speakers 
with a good deal of acuteness, exposing the weak points, but 
magnanimously owning that it was tolerable for the style of thing, 
and might go down at Stoneborough, 

1 1 wonder you did not stay away as Harry did.’ 

1 1 thought it would be marked,’ observed the thread-paper Tom, 
as if he had been at least County member. 

‘ You did quite right,’ said Meta, really thinking so. 

1 1 wished to hear Dr. Spencer, too,’ said Tom. ‘ There is a man 
who does know how to speak ! He has seen something of the world, 
and knows what he is talking of.’ 

< But he did not come near Norman.’ 

* I hated listening to Norman,’ said Tom. ‘ Why should he go 
and set his heart on those black savages ? ’ 

* They are not savages in New Zealand.’ 

( They are all niggers together,’ said Tom, vehemently. ‘ I 
cannot think why Norman should care for them more than for his 
own brothers and sisters. All I know is, that if I were my father 
I would never give my consent.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


245 


‘ It is lucky you are not,’ said Meta, smiling defiance, though 
a tear shone in her eye. * Dr. May makes the sacrifice with a free 
heart and willing mind.’ 

1 Everybody goes and sacrifices somebody else,’ grumbled Tom. 

‘ Who are the victims now ? ’ 

1 All of us. What are we to do without Norman ? He is 
worth all of us put together ; and I — ’ Meta was drawn to the 
boy as she had never been before, as he broke off short, his face 
full of emotion, that made him remind her of his father. 

1 You might go out and follow in his steps,’ said she, as the 
most consoling hope she could suggest. 

‘ Not I. Don’t you know what is to happen to me ? Ah ! 
Flora has not told you. I thought she would not think H grand 
enough. She talked about diplomacy — ’ 

1 But what ? ’ asked Meta, anxiously. 

1 Only that I am to stick to the old shop,’ said Tom. 1 Don’t 
tell anyone ; I would not have the fellows know it.’ 

1 Do you mean your father’s profession ? ’ 

1 Aye ! ’ 

1 Oh ! Tom, you don’t talk of that as if you despised it ? ’ 

‘ If it is good enough for him, it is good enough for me, I sup- 
pose,’ said Tom. 1 1 hate everything, when I think of my brothers’ 
going over the world, while I, do what I will, I must be tied down 
to this slow place all the rest of my days.’ 

1 If you were away, you would be longing after it.’ 

I Yes ; ' but I can’t get away.’ 

£ Surely, if the notion is so unpleasant to you, Dr. May would . 
never insist ? ’ 

£ It is my free choice, and that’s the worst of it.’ 

I I don’t understand.’ 

1 Don’t you see ? Norman told me it would be a great relief to 
him, if I would turn my mind that way — and I can’t go against 
Norman. I found he thought he must, if I did not ; and, you 
know, he is fit for all sorts of thngs that — Besides, he has a 
squeamishness about him, that makes him turn white, if one does 
but cut one’s finger, and how he would ever go through the 
hospitals — ’ 

Meta suspected that Tom was inclined to launch into horrors 
‘ So you wanted to spare him,’ she said. 

1 Aye ! and papa was so pleased, by my offering, that I can’t say 
a word of the bore it is. If I were to back out, it would come 
upon Aubrey, and he is weakly, and so young, that he could not 
help my father for many years.’ 

Meta was much struck at the motives that actuated the self- 
sacrifice, veiled by the sullen manner which she almost began to 
respect. 1 What is done for such reasons must make you happy/ 
she said ; ‘ though there may be much that is disagreeable.’ 


246 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘Not the study,’ said Tom. ‘ The science is famous work. 1 
like what I see of it in my father’s books, and there’s a splendid 
skeleton at the hospital, that I long to be at. If it were not for 
Stoneborough, it would be all very well ; but, if I should get on 
ever so well at the examinations, it all ends here ! I must come 
•back, and go racing about this miserable circuit, just like your gold 
pheasant rampaging in his cage, seeing the same stupid people all 
my days.’ 

‘ 1 think,’ said Meta, in a low, heartfelt voice, ‘ it is a noble, 
beautiful thing to curb down your ambition for such causes. Tom, 
I like you for it.’ 

The glance of those beautiful eyes was worth having. Tom 
coloured a little, but assumed his usual gruffness. 

‘ I can’t bear sick people,’ he said. 

‘ It has always seemed to me,’ said Meta, * that few lives could 
come up to Dr. May’s. Think of going about, always watched for 
with hope, often bringing gladness and relief ; if nothing else, com- 
fort and kindness, his whole business doing good.’ 

‘ One is paid for it,’ said Tom. 

‘ Nothing could ever repay Dr. May,’ said Meta. ‘ Can any one 
feel the fee anything but a mere form ? Besides, think of the num- 
bers and numbers that he takes nothing from ; and oh ! to how 
many he has brought the most real good, when they would have shut 
their door against it in any other form ? Oh ! Tom, I think none 
of you guess how every one feels about your father. I recollect 
one poor woman saying, after he had attended her brother, “ He 
t could not save his body, but surely, ma’m, I think he was the saving 
of his soul.” ’ 

‘ It is of no use to talk of my being like my father,’ said Tom. 

Meta thought perhaps not, but she was full of admiration of his 
generosity, and said, ‘ You will make it the same work of love, and 
charity is the true glory.’ 

‘Any inroad on Tom’s reserve I and depressed nature was a 
benefit ; and lie was of an age to be susceptible of the sympathy of 
one so pretty and so engaging. lie had never been so much gra- 
tified or encouraged, and, wishing to prolong the fete ci tete, he 
chose to take the short cut through the fir plantations, unfrequented 
on account of the perpendicular, spiked railings that divided it from 
the lane. 

Meta was humming-bird enough to be undismayed. She put 
hand and foot wherever he desired, flattered him by letting him 
handily help her up, and bounded light as a feather down on the 
other side, congratulating herself on the change from the dusty lane 
to the whispering pine woods, between which wound the dark path, 
bestrewn with brown slippery needle-leaves, and edged with the 
delicate feathering ling and tufts of soft grass. 

Tom had miscalculated the chances of interruption Meta was 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 24:7 

lingering to track the royal highway of some giant ants to theii 
fir-leaf hillock, when they were hailed from behind, and her squire 
felt ferocious at the sight of Norman and Harry closing the per- 
spective of fir-trunks. 

‘Hollo! Tom, what a guide you are!’ exclaimed Norman. 
‘ That fence which even Ethel and Mary avoid ! ’ 

‘ Mary climbs like a cow, and Ethel like a father-long-legs,’ said 
Tom. ‘ Now, Meta flies like a bird.’ 

‘ And Tom helped me so cleverly,’ said Meta. ‘ It was an ex- 
cellent move, to get into the shade and this delicious pine-tree 
fragrance.’ 

‘ Halt ! ’ said Norman — ‘ this is too fast for Meta.’ 

‘ 1 cannot,’ said Harry. ‘ I must get there in time to set Dr. 
Spencer’s tackle to rights. He is tolerably knowing about knots, 
but there is a dodge beyond him. Come on, Tom.’ 

He drew on the reluctant Etonian, who looked rcpiningly back 
at the increasing distance between him and the other pair, till a turn 
in the path cut off his view. 

‘ I am afraid you do not know what you have undertaken,’ said 
Norman. 

‘ I am a capital walker. And I know, or do not know, how often 
Ethel takes the same walk.’ 

‘ Ethel is no rule.’ 

‘ She ought to be,’ said Meta. ‘ To be like her has always been 
my ambition.’ 

‘ Circumstances have formed Ethel.’ 

‘ Circumstances ! What an ambiguous word ! Either Provi- 
dence pointing to duty, or the world drawing us from it.’ 

‘ Stepping-stones or stumbling-blocks.’ 

‘ And oh ! the difficult question, when to bend them, or to bend 
to them !' ’ 

‘ There must always be some guiding,’ said Norman. 

‘I believe there is,’ said Meta, ‘but when trumpet-peals arc 
ringing around, it is hard to know whether one is really “ waiting 
beside the tent,” or only dawdling.” 

‘ It is great self-denial in the immoveable square not to join the 
charge,’ said Norman. 

‘ Yes, but they, being shot at, are not deceiving themselves.’ 

‘ I suppose self-deception on those points is very common.’ 

‘ Especially among young ladies,’ said Meta. ‘ I hear so much 
of what girls would do, if they might, or could, that I long to see 
them like Ethel — do what they can. And then it strikes me that 
I am doing the same, living wilfully in indulgence, and putting my 
trust in my own misgivings and discontent.’ 

‘ I should have thought that discontent had as little to do with 
you, as with any living creature.’ 

‘ You don’t know how I could growl ! ’ said Meta, laughing 


248 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ Though less from having any thing to complain of, than from hav 
ing nothing to complain of.’ 

‘ You mean,’ he said, pausing with a seriousness and hesitation 
that startled her. ‘ Do you mean that this is not the course of life 
that you would choose ? ’ 

A sort of bashfulness made her put her answer playfully, 

All play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.” ’ 

‘ Toys have a kindly mission, and I may be good for nothing 
else; but I would have rather been a coffee-pot than a China 
shepherdess.’ 

The gaiety disconcerted him, and he seemed to try to be silent, 
or to reply in the same tone, but he could not help returning to the 
subject. ‘ Then you find no charm in the refinements to which you 
have been brought up ? ’ 

‘ Only too much,’ said Meta. 

He was silent, and fearing to have added to his fine lady impres- 
sion, she resumed. ‘ 1 mean that I never could dislike anything, 
and kindness gives these things a soul ; but, of course, I should be 
better satisfied, if I lived harder, and had work to do.’ 

‘Meta!’ he exclaimed, ‘you tempt me very much! Would 
you? — No, it is too unreasonable. Would you share — share the 
work that I have undertaken ? ’ 

He turned aside and leant against a tree, as if not daring to 
watch the effect of the agitated words that had broken from him. 
She had little imagined whither his last sayings had been tending 
and stood still, breathless with the surprise. 

‘Forgive me,’ he said, hastily. ‘It was very wrong. I nevei 
meant to have vexed you, by the betrayal of my vain affection.’ 

He seemed to be going, and this roused her. ‘ Stay, Norman,’ 
exclaimed she. ‘ Why should it vex me ? I should like it very 
much, indeed.’ 

He faced suddenly towards her ; ‘ Meta, Meta, is it possible ? 
Do you know what you are saying ? ’ 

‘ I think I do.’ 

‘ You must understand me,’ said Norman, striving to speak 
calmly. ‘ You have been — Words will not express what you have 
been to me for past years, but I thought you too far beyond my 
hopes. I knew I ought to be removed from you — I believed that 
those who are debarred from earthly happiness, are marked for 
especial tasks. I never intended you to know what actuated me, 
and now the work is undertaken, and — and I cannot turn back — ’ 
he added, quickly, as if fearing himself. 

‘ No, indeed,’ was her steady reply. 

‘ Then I may believe it ! ’ cried Norman. You do — you will 
—you deliberately choose to share it with me ? ’ 

‘ I will try not to be a weight on you,’ answered the youn^ £ \rj t 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


249 


with a sweet mixture of resolution and humility. ‘ It would bo tho 
greatest possible privilege. I really do not think I am a fine lady 
ingrain, and you will teach me not to be too unworthy.’ 

‘ I ? O Meta, you know not what I am. Yet with you, with 
you to inspire, to strengthen, to cheer — Meta, Meta, life is so much 
changed before me, that I cannot understand it yet — after the long 
dreary hopelessness — ’ 

1 1 can’t think why — ’ Meta had half said, when feminine dignity 
checked the words, consciousness and confusion suddenly assailed 
her, dyed her cheeks crimson, and stifled her voice. 

It was the same with Norman, and bashfulness making a sudden 
prey of both — on they went under its dominion, in a condition par- 
taking equally of discomfort and felicity ; dreading the sound of 
their own voices, afraid of each other’s faces, feeling they were 
treating each other very strangely and ungratefully, yet without an 
idea what to say next, or the power of speaking first ; and therefore 
pacing onwards, looking gravely straight along the path, as if to 
prevent the rabbits and fox-gloves from guessing that any thing had 
been passing between them. 

Dr. May had made his call at Drydale, and was driving up a 
rough lane, between furzey banks, leading to Cocksmoor, when he 
was aware of a tall gentleman on one side of the road and a little 
lady on the other, with the whole space of the cart-track between 
them, advancing soberly towards him. 

‘ Iloilo ! Why, Meta ! Norman ! what brings you here ? Where 
are you going ? ’ 

Norman perceived that he had turned to the left instead of to 
the right, and was covered with shame. 

1 That is all your wits are good for. It is well I met you, or 
you Would have led poor Meta a pretty dance ! You will know bet- 
ter than to trust yourself to the mercies of a scholar another time. 
Let me give you a lift.’ 

The courteous Doctor sprang out to hand Meta in, but some- 
thing made him suddenly desire Adams to drive on, and then turn- 
ing round to the two young people, he said ‘ Oh ! ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Norman, taking her hand, and drawing her towards 
him. 

‘ What, Meta, my pretty one, is it really so ? Is he to be happy 
after all ? Are you to be a Daisy of my own ? ’ 

1 If you will let me,’ murmured Meta, clinging to her kind old 

friend- 

1 No flower on earth could come so naturally to us,’ said Dr. May. 

And, dear child, at last I may venture to tell you that you have a 
sanction that you will value more than mine. Yes, my dear, on 
the last day of your dear father’s life, when some foreboding hung 
upon him, he spoke to me of your prospects, and singled out this 
very Norman as such as he would prefer.’ 


250 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Meta’s tears prevented all, save the two little words, 1 thank 
you ; ’ but she put out her hand to Norman, as she still rested on the 
Doctor’s arm, more as if he had been her mother than Norman’s 
father. ‘ Did he ? ’ from Norman, was equally inexpressive of the 
almost incredulous gratitude and tenderness of his feeling. 

It would not bear talking over at that moment, and Dr. May 
presently broke the silence in a playful tone. ‘ So, Meta, good men 
don’t like heiresses ? ’ 

‘ Quite true,’ said Meta, ‘ it was very much against me.’ 

‘ Or it may be the other way,’ said Norman. 

‘ Eh ? G-ood men don’t like heiresses — here’s a man who likes 
an heiress — therefore here’s a man that is not good ? Ah, ha ! 
Meta, you can see that is false logic, though I’ve forgotten mine. — 
And pray, Miss, what are we to say to your uncle ? ’ 

‘ He cannot help it,’ said Meta, quickly. 

‘ Ha ! ’ said the Doctor, laughing, ‘ we remember our twenty-one 
years, do we ? ’ 

‘ I did not mean — I hope I said nothing wrong,’ said Meta, in 
blushing distress. ‘ Only after what you said, I can care for nothing 
else.’ 

‘If I could only thank him,’ said Norman, fervently. 

‘ I believe you know how to do that, my boy,’ said Dr. May, 
looking tenderly at the fairy figure between them, and ending with 
a sigh, remembering, perhaps, the sense of protection with which 
he had felt another Margaret lean on his arm. 

The clatter of horses’ hoofs caused Meta to withdraw her hand, 
and Norman to retreat to his own side of the lane, as Sir Henry 
Walkingliame and his servant overtook them. 

‘ We will be in good time for the proceedings,’ called out the 
Doctor. ‘ Tell them we are coming.’ 

‘ I did not know you were walking,’ said Sir Henry to Meta. 

‘ It is pleasant in the plantations,’ Dr. May answered for her ; 
‘ but I am afraid we are late, and our punctual friends will be in 
despair. Will you kindly say we are at hand.’ 

Sir Henry rode on, finding that he was not to be allowed to walk 
Ills horse with them, and that Miss llivers had never looked up. 

‘ Poor Sir Henry ! ’ said Dr. May. 

‘ He has no right to be surprised,’ said Meta, very low. 

‘ And so you were marching right upon Drydale ! ’ continued 
Dr. May, not able to help laughing. ‘ It was a happy dispensation 
that I met you.’ 

‘ Oh ! I am so glad of it ! ’ said Meta. 

‘ Though to be sure you were disarming suspicion by so cau- 
tiously keeping the road between you. I should never have guessed 
what you had been at.’ 

There was a little pause ; then Meta said, rather tremulously, 
Please — I think it should be known at once 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


251 


Oar idle deeds confessed without loss of time, Miss ? ’ 

Norman came across the path, saying, ‘ Meta is right — it should 
be known.’ 

‘ I don’t think uncle Cosham would object, especially hearing it 
while he is here,’ said Meta — ‘ and if he knew what you told us.’ 

1 He goes to-morrow, does he not ? ’ said Dr. May. 

A silence of perplexity ensued. Meta, brave as she was, hardly 
knew her uncle enough to volunteer, and Norman was privately de- 
vising, a beginning by the way of George, when Dr. May said, ‘Well, 
since it is not a case for putting Ethel in the forefront, I must e’en 
get it over for you I suppose.’ 

‘ O thank you,’ they cried both at once, feeling that he was the 
proper person in every way, and Norman added, ‘ The sooner tho 
better, if Meta — ’ 

‘ 0 yes, yes, the sooner the better,’ exclaimed Meta. ‘ And let 
me tell Flora — poor dear Flora — she is always so kind.’ 

A testimony that was welcome to Dr. May, who had once, at 
least, been under the impression that Flora courted Sir Henry’s at- 
tentions to her sister-in-law. 

Further consultation was hindered by Tom and Blanche burst- 
ing upon them from the common, both echoing Norman’s former re- 
proach of “ A pretty guide ! ” and while Blanche explained the 
sufferings of all the assembly at their tardiness, Tom, without know- 
ing it, elucidated what had been a mystery to the Doctor, namely, 
how they ever met, by his indignation at Norman’s having assumed 
the guidance for which he was so unfit. 

‘'A shocking leader ; Meta will never trust him again,’ said 
Dr. May. 

Still Blanche thought them not nearly sufficiently sensible of 
their enormities, and preached eagerly about their danger of losing 
standing room, when they emerged on the moor, and beheld a crowd, 
above whose heads rose the apex of a triangle, formed by three poles, 
sustaining a rope and huge stone. 

1 Here comes Dr. Spencer,’ she said. ‘ I hope he will scold you.’ 

Whatever Dr. Spencer might have suffered, he was far too polite 
to scold, and a glance between the two physicians ended in a merry 
twinkle of his bright eyes. 

‘ This way/ he said, ‘ we are all ready.’ 

1 But where’s my little Daisy ? ’ said Dr. May. 

‘ You’ll see her in a minute. She is as good as gold.’ 

He drew them on up the bank — people making way for them — 
till he had stationed them among the others of their own party, 
beside the deep trench that traced the foundation, around a space 
that seemed far too small. 

Nearly at the same moment, began the soft clear sound of chant- 
ing wafted upon the wind, then dying away — carried off by some 
eddying breeze, then clear, and coming nearer and nearer. 


252 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ I will not suffer mine eyes to sleep, 

Nor mine eye -lids to slumber: 

Neither the temples of my head to take any rest ; 

Until I find out a place for the Temple of the Lord : 

An habitation for the mighty God of Jacob.’ 

Few, wlio knew the history of Cocksmoor, could kelp glancing 
towards the slight girl, who stood, with bent head, her hand clasped 
over little Aubrey’s ; while, all that was not prayer and thanksgiving 
in her mind, was applying the words to him, whose head rested in 
the Pacific isle, while, in the place which he had chosen, was laid 
the foundation of the Temple that he had given unto the Lord. 

There came forth the procession : the Minster choristers, Dr. 
Spencer as architect, and, in her white dress, little Gertrude, led 
between Harry and Hector, Margaret’s special choice for the occa- 
sion, and followed by the Stoneborough Clergy. 

* Let thy Priests be clothed with righteousness.’ 

It came in well with the gentle, meek, stedfast face of the young 
Curate of Cocksmoor, as he moved on in his white robe, and the 
sun-light shone upon his fair hair, and calm brow, thankful for the 
past, and hoping, more than fearing, for the future. 

The prayers were said, and there was a pause, while Dr. Spencer 
and the foreman advanced to the machine and adjusted it. The two 
youths then led forward the little girl, her innocent face and large 
blue eyes wearing a look of childish obedient solemnity, only half 
understanding what she did, yet knowing it was something great. 

It was very pretty to see her in the midst of the little gathering 
round the foundation, the sturdy workman smiling over his hod of 
mortar, Dr. Spencer’s silver locks touching her flaxen curls -as he 
held the shining trowel to her, and Harry’s bright head and hardy 
face, as he knelt on one knee to guide the little soft hand, while 
Hector stood by, still and upright, his eye fixed far away, as if his 
thoughts were roaming to the real founder. 

The Victoria coins were placed — Gertrude scooped up the mass 
of mortar, and spread it about with increasing satisfaction, as it 
went so smoothly and easily, prolonging the operation, till Harry 
drew her back, while, slowly down creaked the ponderous corner- 
stone into the bed that she had prepared for it, and, with a good 
will, she gave three taps on it with her trowel. 

Harry had taken her hand, when, at the sight of Dr. May, she 
broke from him, and, as if taking sudden fright at her own un- 
wonted part, ran, at full speed, straight up to her father, and clung 
to him, hiding her face as he raised her in his arms and kissed her. 

Meanwhile the strain arose : — 

‘ Thou heavenly, new Jerusalem, 

Vision of peace, in Prophet’s dream ; 

With living stones, built up on high, 

And rising to the starry sky — * 


THE TAISY CHAIN. 


253 


The blessing of peace seemed to linger softly and gently in tha 
fragrant summer breeze, and there was a pause ere the sounds of 
voices awoke again. 

‘ Etheldred — ’ Mr. Wilmot stood beside her, ere going to un- 
robe in the school. ‘ Etheldred, you must once let me say, God 
bless you for this.’ 

As she knelt beside her sister’s sofa, on her return home, Mar- 
garet pressed something into her hand. ‘ If you please, dearest, give 
this to Dr. Spencer, and ask him to let it be set round the stem of 
the Chalice,’ she whispered. 

Ethel recognized Alan Ernescliffe’s pearl hoop, the betrothed 
ring, and looked at her sister without a word. 

‘ I wish it,’ said Margaret, gently. 1 1 shall like best to know 
it there.’ 

So Margaret joined in Alan’s offering, and Ethel dared say no 
more, as she thought how the “ relic of a frail love lost ” was be- 
coming the “ token of endless love begun.” There was more true 
union in this, than in clinging to the mere tangible emblem — for 
broken and weak is all affection that is not knit together above in 
the One Infinite Love. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

‘ Of lowly fields you think no scorn, 

Yet gayest gardens would adorn, 

And grace wherever set ; 

Home, seated in your lowly bower, 

Or wedded, a transplanted flower, 

I bless you, Margaret. 

Charles Lamb. 

George Rivers had an antipathy to ladies’ last words keeping the 
horses standing, and his wife and sister dutifully seated themselves 
in the carriage at once, without an attempt to linger. 

Four of the young gentlemen were to walk across to Abbotstoke 
and dine at the Grange ; and Tom, who, reasoning from analogy, 
had sent on his black tie and agate studs, was so dismally discon- 
certed on finding that Norman treated his own going as a matter of 
course, that Richard, whose chief use of his right of primogeniture 
was to set himself aside, discovered that he was wanted at home, and 
that Tom would be much better at the Grange, offering, at the 
same time, to send Norman’s dressing things by Dr. Spencer. 

* Which,’ observed Thomas, ‘ he would never have recollected 
for himself.’ 

1 Tom would have had to lend him the precious studs.’— ‘ He 
would not have had them, who would wear imitation ? ’ ‘I say, 
Tom, what did you give for them?’ ‘Better ask what the Jew 
gave for them, that bought them at Windsor fair — not a bad imita- 


254 : TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 

tion, either — pity they weren’t Malachite ; hut, no doubt, the J ew 
thought green would be personal.’ ‘ As if they had any business to 
talk, who didn’t know a respectable stud when they saw it — Harry, 
especially, with his hat set on the back of his head, like a sailor on 
the stage — ’ (a leap to set it to-rights — a skirmish, knocking Tom 
nearly into the ditch). ‘ Fine experience of the stage — all came from 
Windsor fair.’ 1 Aye, Hector might talk, but didn’t he pay a shilling 
to see the Irish giant. He wouldn’t confess, but it was a famous 
take in — giant had potatoes in his shoes.’ ‘ Not he ; he was seven 
feet ten high.’ 1 Aye, when he stood upon a stool — Hector would 
swallow anything — even the lady of a million postage stamps had not 
stuck in his throat — he had made Margaret collect for her.’ ‘ And. 
had not Tom, himself, got a bottle of ointment to get the red out 
of his hair ? ’ — (great fury). ‘ His hair wasn’t led — didn’t want to 
change the colour — not half so red as Hector’s own.’ 1 What was 
it then ? lively auburn ? ’ But for fear of Norman’s losing his bear- 
ings, Harry would fetch a carrot, to compare. 1 Better colour than 
theirs would ever be.’ 1 Then, what was the ointment for ? to pro- 
duce whiskers ? — that was the reason Tom oiled himself like a Loyalty 
islander — his hair was so shiny, that Harry recommended a topknot, 
like theirs, &c.’ 

Norman was, like the others, in such towering glee, and took so 
full a share of the witticisms, that were the more noisily applauded, 
the worse they were, that Harry suggested that 1 old June had lost 
his way, and found his spirits in Drydale — he must have met with 
a private grog-shop in the plantations — would not Tom confess’ — 
i not he ; it was all in private. He thought it was laughing-gas, or 
the reaction of being fried all the morning, holding forth in that Town 
Hall. He lad longed to make a speech himself — no end of the good 
it would have done the old stagers to come out with something to 
the purpose. What would old Hoxton have thought of it ? 

‘ They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the heard ; 

"Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the liairy-faced baboon ; 

Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon. 

I myself, in far Timbucto#, leopard’s blood shall daily quaff ; 

Bide a tiger hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.’ 

‘ Not you, Tom,’ cried Hector ! 

‘ You, the swell, the Eton fellow ! Yon, to seek such horrid places. 

You to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey faces. 
l r ool, again the dream, the fancy ; don’t I know the words are mad, 

For you count the grey barbarian lower than the Brocas cad I ’ 

' Nay, it is the consequence of misanthropy at the detection of 
the frauds of sophisticated society,’ said Norman. 

‘ The edge of life is rusted ; 

The agate studs and whisker ointment left him very much disgusted.’ 


THE DAISY - CHAIN. 255 

‘ Perhaps ifc was Miss Divers forsaking him. Was not that 
rather spider-hearted, Tom?’ 

( Come Harry, it is time to have done. We are getting into 
civilized society — here’s Abbotstoke. ’ 

‘ Poor Norman, he is very far gone ! He takes that scarecrow 
for civilized society ! 5 

1 Much better clothed than the society you have been accustomed 
to, July.’ “What a prize his wardrobe would be to the Black 
Prince ! ” 1 Don’t insult your betters ! ’ “ Which ? The scarecrow, 
or the Black Prince ? ” 

Norman tried to call his companions to order, for they were 
close upon the village, and he began to tax himself with unbecoming 
levity ; the effect of spirits pitched rather low, which did not easily 
find their balance, under tmwonted exhilaration, but Harry’s antics 
were less easily repressed than excited, and if Tom had not heard 
the Grange clock strike half-past six, and had not been afraid of not 
having time to array himself, and watch over Harry’s neckcloth, 
they would hardly have arrived in reasonable time. Dr. May had 
gone home, and there was no one in the drawing-room ; but, as 
Norman was following the boys up-stairs, Flora opened her sitting- 
room door, and attracted his attention by silently putting her cold 
fingers into his hand, and drawing him into the room. 

I Dear Norman, this is pleasant,’ she said, affectionately; but in 
a voice so sunken, that all gladness seemed to be dead within, and 
the effect was far more mournful than if she had not attempted to 
smile congratulation. 

‘ I will give you till Dr. Spencer comes,’ she said. * Then Nor- 
man can dress, and you must be a good child, and come down to me.’ 

The playfulness ill-suited the wan, worn face that seemed to 
have caught a grey tint from her rich poplin, her full toilette mak- 
ing the contrast almost more painful ; and, as she closed the door, 
her brother could only exclaim, 1 Poor Flora ! ’ 

‘ She is so kind,’ said the voice of the white figure that moved 
towards him. 1 0, if we could comfort her ! ’ 

I I trust to her own kindness working comfort to her, at last,’ 
said Norman. 1 But is she often thus ? ’ 

i Whenever she is not bearing up for George’s sake,’ said Meta. 
She never says anything when she is alone with me, only she does 
not struggle with her looks.’ 

{ It must be very trying for you.’ 

‘ Nay, I feel grateful to her for even so far relaxing the restraint 
-If I could but do her any good.’ 

; You cannot help doing her good,’ said Norman. 

Meta sighed, and shook her head slightly, as she said, ‘ She is 
jo gentle and considerate. I think this has been no fresh pain to 
her to-day, but I cannot tell. The whole day has been a strange 
intermixture.’ 


256 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


I The two strands of joy and grief have been very closely twisted, 
said Norman. ‘ That rose is shedding its fragrant leaves in its 
glory, and there is much that should have chastened the overflowing 
gladness of to-day.’ 

‘ As I was thinking,’ whispered Meta, venturing nearer to him, 
and looking into his face with the sweet reliance of union in thought. 
She meant him to proceed, but he paused, saying, * You were 
thinking — ’ 

I I had rather hear it from you.’ 

1 Was it not that we were taught to-day what is enduring, and 
gives true permanence and blessedness to such — to what there was 
between Ernescliffe and Margaret ? ’ 

Her dewy eyes, and face of deep emotion, owned that he had 
interpreted her thought. 

‘ Theirs would, indeed, be a disheartening example,’ he said, ‘ if 
it did not shew the strength and peace that distance, lickness, 
death, cannot destroy.’ 

‘ Yes. To see that Church making Margaret happy as she lies 
smiling on her couch, is a lesson of lessons.’ 

‘ That what is hallowed must be blest,’ said Norman ; 1 whatever 
the sundry and manifold changes.’ 

Each was far too humble to deny aloud any inequality with the 
goodness of Alan and Margaret, knowing that it would be at once 
disputed, trusting to time to prevent the over-estimate, and each 
believing the other was the one to bring the blessing. 

1 But Meta,’ said Norman, ‘ have you heard nothing of — of the 
elders ? ’ 

I 0 yes,’ said Meta, smiling, 1 have not you ? ’ 

I I have seen no one.’ 

‘ I have ! ’ said Meta, merrily. 1 Uncle Cosham is delighted. 
That speech of yours has captivated him. He calls me a wise little 
woman to have found out your first-rate abilities. There’s for you, 
sir.’ 

‘ I don’t understand it ! Surely he must be aware of my inten- 
tions ? ’ 

‘ He said nothing about tnem ; but, of course, Dr. May must 
have mentioned them.’ 

‘ I should have thought so, but I cannot suppose — ’ 

‘ That he would be willing to let me go,’ said Meta. 1 But then 
you know ho cannot help it,’ added she, with a roguish look, at 
finding herself making one of her saucy independent speeches. 

' I believe you are taking a would-be Missionary, instead of Nor- 
man May ! ’ he answered, with a sort of teazing sweetness. 

‘ All would-be Missionaries did not make dear papa so fond of 
them,’ said Meta, very low ; ‘ and you would not be Norman May 
without such purposes.’ 

‘ The purpose was not inspired at first by the highest motive. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


257 


said Norman; ‘but it brought me peace, and, after the kind of 
dedication that I inwardly made of myself, in my time of trouble, 
it would take some weighty reason, amounting to a clear duty, or 
physical impossibility, to make me think I ought to turn back. I 
believe — ’ the tears rose to his eyes, and he brought out the words 
with difficulty — ‘ that, if this greatest of all joys were likely to hinder 
me from my calling, I ought to seek strength to regard it as a 
temptation, and to forego it.’ 

‘ You ought, if it were so,’ said Meta, nevertheless holding him 
tighter. ' I could not bear to keep back a soldier. If this were 
last year, and I had any tie or duty here, it would be very hard. 
But no one needs me, and if the health I have always had be con- 
tinued to me, I don’t think I shall be much in the way. There,’ 
drawing back a little, and trying to laugh off her feeling — ‘ Only 
tell me at once if you think me still too much of a fine lady.’ 

‘ I — you — a fine lady ! Did anything ever give you the impres- 
sion that I did ? ’ 

‘ I shall not get poor Harry into a scrape, shall I ? lie told 
me that you said so last spring, and I feared you judged me too 
truly.’ 

After a few exclamations of utter surprise, it flashed on Nor- 
man. ‘ I know, I know — Harry interpreted my words in his own 
blunt fashion ! ’ 

‘ Then you did say something like it ? ’ 

‘ No, but — but — In short, Meta, these sailors’ imaginations go 
to great lengths. Harry had guessed more than I knew myself, 
before he had sailed, and taxed me with it. It was a subject I could 
not bear then, and I answered that you were too far beyond my 
hopes.’ 

‘ Six years ago ! ’ said Meta, slowly, blushing deeper and deeper. 
‘ Some eyes saw it all that time, and you — and,’ she added, laugh- 
ing, though rather tearfully, ‘ I should never have known it, if Tom 
had not taken me through the plantations ! ’ 

1 Not if I had not discovered that your preferences did not lie — ’ 

‘ Among boudoirs and balls ? ’ said Meta. ‘ Harry was right. 
You thought me a fine lady after all ’ 

The gay taunt was cut short by a tap at the door, and Flora 
looked in. ‘ Dr. Spencer has brought your things, Norman. I am 
sorry to disturb you — but come - down, Meta — I ran away very 
uncivilly to fetch you. I hope it is not too cruel,’ as she drew 
Meta’s arm into her own,’ and added, ‘ I have not been able to speak 
to George.’ 

Meta suspected that, in the wish to spare her, Flora had ab- 
stained from seeking him. 

The evening went off like any other evening — people ate and 
talked, thought Mrs. B-ivers looking very ill, and Miss liivers very 
pretty — Flora forced herself into being very friendly to Sir Henr}^ 


25S 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


commiserating the disappointment to which she had led him ; and 
she hoped that he suspected the state of affairs, though Tom, no 
longer supplanted by his elder brother, pursued Meta into the 
sheltered nook, where Flora had favoured her seclusion, to apolo- 
gize for having left her to the guidance of poor Norman, whoso 
head was with the blackamoors. It was all Harry’s fault. 

‘Nonsense, Tom,’ said Harry; ‘don’t you think Norman is 
better company than you, any day ? ’ 

‘ Then why did you not walk him off instead of me ? ’ said Tom, 
turning round sharply. 

‘ Out of consideration for Meta. She will tell you that she was 
very much obliged to me — ’ Harry checked himself, for Meta was 
colouring so painfully, that his own sunburnt face caught the glow 0 
He pushed Tom’s slight figure aside with a commanding move of 
his broad hand, and said, ‘ I beg your pardon, upon my word, though 
I don’t know what for.’ 

‘ Nor I,’ saia Meta, rallying herself, and smiling. ‘ You have 
no pardon to beg. You will know it all to-morrow.’ 

‘ Then I know it now,’ said Harry, sheltering his face by lean- 
ing over the back of a chair, and taming the hearty gaiety of his 
voice. ‘ Well done, Meta — there’s nothing like old June in all the 
world ! You may take my word for it, and I knew you would have 
the sense to find it out.’ 

They were well out of sight, and Meta only answered by a good 
tight squeeze of his kind hand between both her own. Tom, sud- 
denly recovering from his displeasure at being thrust aside, whisked 
round, dropped on a footstool before Meta, looked up in her face, 
and said, ‘ Hollo ! ’ in such utter amazement that there was nothing 
for it but to laugh more uncontrollably than was convenient. ‘ Come 
along, Tom,’ said Harry, pulling him up by force, ‘ she does not 
want any of your nonsense. We will not plague her now.’ 

1 Thank you, Harry,’ said Meta. ‘ I cannot talk rationally just 
yet. Don’t think me unkind, Tom.’ 

Tom sat in a sort of trance all the rest of the evening. 

Lord Cosham talked to Norman, who felt as if he were being 
patronized on false pretences, drew into his shell, and displayed 
none of his ‘ first-rate abilities.’ 

Dr. Spencer discussed his architecture with the Archdeacon; 
but his black eyes roamed heedfully after the young gentleman and 
lady, in the opposite Corners of the room; and, as he drove home 
afterwards, with the youths, he hummed scraps of Scottish songs, 
and indulged in silent smiles. 

Those at home had been far more demonstrative. Dr. May had 
arrived, declaring himself the proudest Doctor in her Majesty’s 
dominions, and Ethel needed nothing but his face to explain why 
and tell her that dear old June’s troubles were over, and their 


the daisy chain. 


259 


pretty little Meta was tlicir own — a joy little looked for to attend 
their foundation stone. 

The dreaded conference with Lord Cosham had proved highly 
gratifying. There might be something in the fact that he could not 
help it, which assisted in his ready acquiescence, but he was also a 
sensible right-minded man, who thought that the largeness of Meta’s 
fortune was no reason that it should be doubled ; considered that, 
in the matter of connection, the May family had the advantage, and 
saw in Norman a young man whom anyone might have pleasure in 
bringing forward. Oxford had established confidence both in his 
character and talents, and his speech had been such as to impress 
an experienced man, like Lord Cosham, with an opinion of his 
powers, that prepared a welcome for him, such as no one could 
have dared to expect. His lordship thought his niece not only 
likely to be happier, but to occupy a more distinguished position 
with such a man as Norman May, than with most persons of ready- 
made rank and fortune. 

The blushing and delighted Hr. May had thought himself bound 
to speak of his son’s designs, but he allowed that the project had 
been formed under great distress of mind, and when he saw it 
treated by so good a man, as a mere form of disappointed love, he 
felt himself reprieved from the hardest sacrifice that he had ever 
been called on to make, loved little Meta the better for restoring 
his son, and once more gave a free course to the aspirations that 
Norman’s brilliant boyhood had inspired. Richard took the same 
view, and the evening passed away in an argument — as if anyone 
had been disputing with them — the father reasoning loud, the son 
enforcing it low, that it had become Norman’s duty to stay at home 
to take care of Meta, whose father would have been horrified at his 
taking her to the Antipodes. They saw mighty tasks for her for- 
tune to effect in England, they enhanced each other’s anticipations 
of Norman’s career, overthrew abuses before him, heaped distinc- 
tions upon him, and had made him Prime Minister and settled his 
policy, before ten o’clock brought their schemes to a close. 

Mary gazed and believed ; Margaret lay still and gently assent- 
ed ; Ethel was silent at first, and only when the fabric became 
extremely airy and magnificent, put in her word with a vehement 
dash at the present abuses, which grieved her spirit above all, and, 
whether vulnerable or not, Norman was to dispose of, like so many 
giants before Mr. Great-heart. 

She went upstairs, unable to analyze her sentiments. To be 
spared the separation would be infinite relief — all this prosperity 
made her exult — the fair girl at the Grange was the delight of her 
heart, and yet there was a sense of falling off ; she disliked herself 
for being either glad or sorry, and could have quarrelled witli the 
lovers for perplexing her feelings so uncomfortably. 

Though she sat up till the party returned, she was inclined to be 


260 


THE DAISY CHAIN'. 


supposed in bed, so as to put off tbe moment of meeting ; but Mar 
garet, who she hoped was asleep, said from her pillow, 1 Ask deal 
Norman to let me give him one kiss.’ 

She ran down headlong, clutched Norman as he was taking off 
his great-coat, told him that Margaret wanted him, and dragged 
him up without letting him go, till she reached the first landing, 
where she stood still, saying breathlessly, “ New Zealand.” 

I If I wished to fail, she would keep me to it.’ 

I I beg your pardon,’ said Ethel, claiming heartily his caress. 
1 1 was wrong to doubt either of you. Now, I know how to feel ! 
But Margaret must not wait.’ 

The happy youth, in the flush of love and joy, bent gently, 
almost tearfully, down in silence to the white form, half-seen in the 
twilight, whose hopes had fleeted away from earth, and who was 
calmly, softly gliding after them. Hardly a word was uttered, but 
of all the many heartfelt thoughts that had passed while the face 
was pressed into Margaret’s pillow, and her sympathizing arms 
round the neck, surely none was ever deeper, than was his prayer 
and vow that his affection should be like hers, unearthly, and there- 
fore enduring. 

The embrace was all; Margaret must not be agitated, and, 
indeed, the events of the day had been too much for her, and the 
ensuing morning brought the fluttering of heart and prostration of 
strength, no longer a novelty and occasion of immediate terror, but 
the token of the waning power of life. 

Till she was better, her father had no thoughts for aught else, 
but, as with many another invalid, the relief from present distress 
was as cheering as if it had been recovery, and ere night, her placid 
look of repose had returned, and she was devising pretty greetings 
for her newest Daisy. 

Perhaps the sobering effect of these hours of anxiety was in 
Norman’s favour, on entering into conversation with his father. 
Those visions, which had had their swing the night before, belonged 
to the earlier, more untamed period of Dr. May’s life, and had 
melted away in the dim room, made sacred by lingering mementos 
of his wife, and in the sound of that panting breath and throbbing 
heart. His vehemence had been, after all, chiefly against his own 
misgivings, and when he heard of his son’s resolution, and Meta’s 
more than acquiescence, he was greatly touched, and recurred to his 
kind, sorrowful promise, that he would never be a stumbling-block 
in the path of his children. Still, he owned himself greatly allured 
by the career proposed by Lord Cosham ; and thought Norman 
should consider the opportunities of doing good in, perhaps, a still 
more important and extensive field, than that which he had chosen. 

‘ Time was that I should have grasped at such a prospect,’ said 
Norman ; ‘ but I am not the man for it. I have too much ambi- 
tion, and too little humility. You know, father, how often you 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


261 


have liad to come to my rescue, wlien I was running after success 
as my prime object.’ 

‘ Vanity fair is a dangerous place, but you, who have sound 
principles and pure motives — ’ 

‘ How long would my motives be pure ? ’ said Norman. ‘ Ri- 
valry and party-spirit make me distrust my motives, and then my 
principles feel the shock. Other men are marked by station for 
such trials, and may be carried through them, but I am not.’ 

‘ Yet some of these men are far from your equals.’ 

'Not perhaps in speechifying,’ said Norman, smiling; ‘but in 
steadiness of aim, in patience, in callousness, in seeing one side of 
the question at once.’ 

‘ You judge rightly for your own peace, you will be the hap- 
pier ; I always doubted whether you had nerve to make your wits 
available.’ 

‘ It may be cowardice,’ said Norman, * but I think not. I could 
burn for the combat ; and if I had no scruples, I could enjoy bear- 
ing down such as — ’ 

Of course Dr. May burst in with a political name, and — 1 1 wish 
you were at him ! ’ 

‘ Whether I could is another matter,’ said Norman, laughing ; 
‘ but the fact is, that I stand pledged ; and if I embraced what to me 
would be a worldly career, I should be running into temptation, 
and could not expect to be shielded from it.’ 

‘ Your old rule,’ said Dr. May. £ Seek to be less rather than 
more. But there is another choice. Why not a parsonage at 
home ? ’ 

‘ Pleasant parishes are not in the same need,’ said Norman. 

‘ I wonder what poor old Rivers would say to you, if he knew 
what you want to do with his daughter ! Brought up as she has 
been — to expose her to the roughness of a colonial life, such as I 
should hesitate about for your sisters.’ 

‘ It is her own ardent desire.’ 

‘ True, but are girlish enthusiasms to be trusted ? Take care, 
Norman, take care of her — she is a bit of the choicest porcelain of 
human kind, and not to be rudely dealt with.’ 

1 No indeed, but she has the brave enterprising temper t to which 
I fully believe that actual work in a good cause, is far preferable 
to what she calls idleness. I do not believe that we are likely to 
meet with more hardship than she would gladly encounter, and 
would almost — nay, quite enjoy.’ 

1 You do not know what your aunt has had to go through.’ 

1 A few years make a great difference in a colony. Still, it may 
be right for me to go out alone and judge for her ; but we shall 
know more if my aunt comes home.’ 

‘ Yes, I could trust a good deal to her. She has much of your 
mother’s sense. Well, you must settle it as you can with Meta’a 


262 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


people ! I do not think they love the pretty creature better than 1 
have done from the first minute we saw her — don’t you remember 
it, Norman ? ’ 

1 Remember it ? Do I not ? From the frosted cedar down- 
wards ! It was the first gem of spring in that dreary winter. What 
a Fairyland the Grange was to me ! 5 

* You may nearly say the same of me,’ confessed Dr. May, 
smiling ; c the sight of that happy little sunny spirit, full of sym- 
pathy and sweetness, always sent me brighter on my way. Wherever 
you may be, Norman, I am glad you have her, being one apt to 
need a pocket sunbeam.’ 

{ I hope my tendencies are in no danger of depressing her ! ’ said 
Norman, startled. ‘ If so — ’ 

1 No such thing — she will make a different man of you. You 
have been depressed by — that early shock, and the gap at our own 
fireside — all that we have shared together, Norman. To see you 
begin on a new score, with a bright home of your own, is the best 
in this world that I could wish for you, though I shall live over my 
own twenty-two years in thinking ©f you, and that sweet little fairy. 
But now go, Norman — she will be watching for you and news of 
Margaret. Give her all sorts of love from me.’ 

Norman fared better with the uncle than he had expected. 
Lord Cosham, as a philanthropist, could not, with any consistency, 
set his face against missions, even when the cost came so near 
home ; and he knew that opposition made the like intentions assume 
a heroic aspect that maintained them in greater force. He there- 
fore went over the subject in a calm dispassionate manner, which 
exacted full and grateful consideration from the young man. 

The final compromise was, that nothing should be settled for a 
year, during which Norman would complete his course of study, and 
the matter might be more fully weighed. Mrs. Arnott would 
probably return, and bring experience and judgment, which would, 
or ought to, decide the question — though Meta had a secret fear 
that it might render it more complicated than ever. However, the 
engagement and the mission views had both been treated so much 
more favourably than could have been hoped, that they felt them- 
selves bound to be patient and forbearing. As Meta said, 1 If they 
shewed themselves wilful children, they certainly did not deserve to 
be trusted anywhere.’ 

Lord Cosham made his niece listen to a kind exhortation not to 
press her influence towards a decision that might be repented, when 
too late to be repaired, without a degrading sense of failure — putting 
her in mind of the privations that would lose romance by their 
pettiness, and which money could not remedy ; and very sensibly 
representing that the effect of these on temper and health was to 
be duly considered, as a serious impediment to usefulness. 

‘ It would be worse for him alone,’ said Meta. 


the daisy chain. 263 

1 That is not certain,’ said her uncle. 1 A broken-down wife is 
a terrible drag.’ 

‘ I know it is so,’ said Meta, firmly, 1 but risks must be run, and 
he is willing to take the chance. I do not think it can be pre- 
sumption, for, you know, I am strong ; and Dr. May would say if 
he could not warrant me. I fancy household work would be more 
satisfactory, and less tiring, than doing a season thoroughly ; and 
I mean to go through a course of Finchley manuals in preparation.’ 

4 1 hope you know what you are doing,’ sighed her uncle. 4 You 
see it all couleur de rose .’ 

4 1 think not. It is because it is not couleuvde rose that I am so 
much bent upon it. I have had plenty of that all my life. I ex- 
pect much that will be very disagreeable and not at all heroic ; but 
if I can only make Norman think it fun, that will be one purpose 
answered. I do believe he will do his work better for having me, 
and, at least, I shall pay his passage.’ 

Her uncle shook his head, but did not try to say any more. 

George had begun by loud exclamations against the project, in 
which he was vehemently abetted by Tom, who primed him with 
all sorts of outrageous abuse of the niggers and cannibals, who 
would make Norman’s coats out of all shape, and devour little Meta 
at a mouthful — predictions which Meta accepted most merrily, 
talking of herself so resignedly, as bound upon a spit, and calling 
out to be roasted slower and faster, that she safely conducted off 
their opposition by way of a standing joke. As to Norman’s coats, 
she threatened to make them herself, and silenced Tom for ever by 
supposing, in malicious simplicity, that he must be able to teach 
her the most unexceptionable cut. 

Flora kept her opinions to herself. Only once, when urged to 
remonstrate, she said, 4 1 could not — I would not.’ 

She was gently and touchingly considerate towards the lovers, 
silently but unobtrusively obviating all that could jar on their feel- 
ings, and employing her exquisite tact in the kindest manner. 

She released Meta from the expedition to Hyde, silencing scruples 
on the one hand, by a suggestion of 4 poor Sir Henry,’ and, on the 
other, by offering to exchange her for Mary. The first proposal 
made Mary take such a spring in her chair, with eyes so round, and 
cheeks so red, and such a shriek about Harry and the Bucephalus, 
that no one could have borne to say one word in opposition, even if 
it had not been the opinion of the Council that sea air would best 
repair Mary’s strength. 

Ethel had some private fears of a scene, since it was one of Misa 
Bracy’s idiosyncracies to be hurt whenever Mary was taken out of 
her hands ; and she went to announce the design, in dread lest this 
shock should destroy the harmony that had prevailed for many 
months ; nay, she almost believed, since the loss of the Alcestis had 
been known. 


25 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


264 

She was agreeably surprised. Miss Bracy thought Mary in 
need of the change, and discussed both her and Blanche in so pleasant 
and sensible a manner, that Ethel was quite relieved. She partook 
in Mary’s anticipations of pleasure, forwarded her preparations, and 
was delighted with her promise of letters — promises that Mary 
bestowed so largely, in the fulness of her heart, that there were 
fears lest her whole time should be spent in writing. 

Her soft heart indulged in a shower of tears when she wished 
them all good-bye ; and Ethel and Blanche found the house 
was very empty without her ; but that was only till Meta came in 
from a walk with Norman, and, under the plea of trying to supply 
Mary’s place, did the work of five Marys, and a great deal besides. 

Nothing could be happier than Meta’s visit, brightening the house 
so that the Mays thought they had never known half her charms, 
helping whatever was going on, yet ready to play with Daisy, tell 
stories to Aubrey, hear Tom’s confidences, talk to Margaret, read 
with Norman, and teach Bichard singing for his school-children. 
The only vexation was, that everyone could not always engross her 
entirely ; and Dr. May used to threaten that they should never 
spare her to that long-legged fellow, Norman. 

She had persuaded Bellairs to go and take care of Flora and 
Mary, instead of the French maid — a plan which greatly satisfied 
Margaret, who had never liked the looks of Coralie, and which Meta 
held to be a grand emancipation. She persuaded old nurse to teach 
her to be useful, and Margaret used to declare that she witnessed 
scenes as good as a play in her room, where the little dextrous 
scholar, apparently in jest, but really in sober earnest, wiled instruc- 
tion from the old woman; and made her experiments, between 
smiles and blushes, and merrily glorying in results that promised that 
she would be a notable housewife. Whether it were novelty or not, 
she certainly had an aptitude and delight in domestic details, 
such as Ethel never could attain ; and, as Dr. May said, the one 
performed by a little finger what the other laboured at with a great 
mind. 

In the school-room, Meta was as highly appreciated. She found 
an hour for helping Blanche in her music, and for giving, what was 
still more useful, an interest and spirit to studies, where, it must 
be owned, poor good Mary had been a dead weight. She enlivened 
Miss Bracy so much, and so often contrived a walk or a talk with 
her, that the saucy Blanche told Hector that she thought Ethel 
would be quite second-fiddle with Miss Bracy. 

No such thing. Miss Bracy’s great delight was in having a 
listener for her enthusiasm about Miss Ethel. She had been lately 
having a correspondence with a former school-fellow, who was 
governess in a family less considerate than the Mays, and who poured 
out, in her letters, feelings much like those with which Miss Bracy 
had begun. 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


2G5 


Nothing could be more salutary than to find herself repeating 
all Ethel’s pieces of advice ; and, one day, when her friend had been 
more distressed than usual, she called Ethel herself, to consult on 
her answer, owning how much she was reminded of herself. 

‘ Indeed,’ she added, ‘ 1 am afraid it would only tease you to 
hear how much I am indebted to your decision and kindness — ’ 

‘Nay,’ said Ethel, laughing her awkward laugh. ‘You have 
often had to forget my savage ways.’ 

‘ Pray don’t say that — ’ 

‘ I think,’ said Ethel, breaking in, ‘ the philosophy is this : I 
believe that it is a trying life. I know teaching takes a great deal 
out of one ; and loneliness may cause tendencies to dwell on fancied 
slights in trifles, that might otherwise be hurried over. But I 
think the thing is, to pass them over, and make a conscience of 
turning one’s mind to something fresh — ’ 

‘ As you made me do, when you brought me amusing books, and 
taught me botany — ’ 

‘ And, still more, when you took to working for the Infant School. 
Yes, I think the way to be happy and useful is to get up many 
interests, so as to be fresh and vigorous, and think not at all of 
personalities. There’s a truism ! ’ 

‘ Yery true, though,’ said Miss Bracy. ‘ Indeed, all your kind- 
ness and consideration would never have done me half the good they 
have, dear Miss Ethel, if you had not taught me that referring all 
to one’s own feelings and self is the way to be unhappy.’ 

‘ Just so,’ said Ethel. ‘ It is the surest way for anyone to be 
miserable.’ 

‘ If I could only persuade poor dear Ellen to think that even if 
a slight were real, it ought to be borne forgivingly, and not brooded 
over. Ah ! y are laughing; perhaps you have said the same of 
me.’ 

‘You would forgive it now, I think,’ said Ethel. 

‘ I never thought I did not forgive. I did not see that brooding 
over vexations was not pardoning them. I have told her so now ; 
and, oh ! if she could but have seen how true sorrows are borne here, 
she would be cured, like me, of making imaginary ones.’ 

.‘None could help being better for living with papa,’ said 

E thol. 

Ethel made Miss Bracy happy by a kiss before she left her. 
1 1 was a cheering belief that, whatever the future trials of her life 
might be, the gentle little lady would meet them with a healthier 
mind, more vigorous in overlooking troubles, and without punctilious 
sensitiveness on the look-out; for affronts. “ Believing all things, 
bearing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things,” would 
be to her the true secret of serenity of spirits. 

Ethel might not have been blameless or consistent in her deal- 
ings in this difficult intercourse, but her kind heart, upright inten- 


266 


THE DAISY CnAIN. 


tion, and force of character, had influence far beyond her own per* 
ception. Indeed, she knew not that she had personal influence at 
all, but went on in her own straight-forward humility. 


*-•-# 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Enough of foresight sad, too much 
Of retrospect have I ; 

And well for ine, that I, sometimes, 

Can put those feelings by.‘ 

* There speaks the man we knew of yore, 1 
Well pleased, I hear them say; 

‘ Such was he, in his lighter moods, 

Before our heads were grey. 

Buoyant he was in spirit, quick 
Of fancy, light of heart; 

And care, and time, and change have left 
Untouch’d his better part.’ 

Southey. 

Etiieldred May and Meta Rivers were together in tlie drawing- 
room. The time-piece pointed towards ten o’clock, but the tea- 
things were on the table, prepared for a meal, the lamp shone with 
a sort of consciousness, and Ethel moved restlessly about, some- 
times settling her tea equipage, sometimes putting away a stray 
book, or resorting by turns to her book, or to work a red and gold 
scroll on coarse canvas, on the other end of which Meta was em- 
ployed. 

‘ Nervous, Ethel ? ’ said Meta, looking up with a merry provok- 
ing smile, knowing how much the word would displease. 

I That is for you,’ retorted Ethel, preferring to carry the war 
into the enemy’s quarters. 1 What, don’t you know that prudent 
people say that your fate depends on her report ? ’ 

‘ At least,’ said Meta, laughing ; ‘ she is a living instance that 
everyone is not eaten up, and we shall see if she fulfils Tom’s pre- 
diction, of being tattooed, or of having a slice out of the fattest part 
of her cheek.’ 

I I know very well,’ said Ethel, 1 the worse she said it would be, 
the more you would go.’ 

‘ Not quite that,’ said Meta, blushing, and looking down. 

‘ Come ! don’t be deceitful ! ’ said Ethel. ‘ You know very well 
that you are still more bent on it than you were last year.’ 

i To be sure I am ! ’ said Meta, looking up with a sudden beamy 
flash of her dark eyes. ‘ Norman and I know each other so much 
better now,’ she added, rather falteringly. 

‘ Aye ! I know you are ready to go through thick and thin, and 
that is why I give my consent and approbation. You are not to bo 
stopped for nonsense.’ 

1 Not for nonsense, certainly,’ said Meta, { but — ’ and her voice 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


267 


became tremulous — 1 if Dr. May deliberately said it would be 
wrong, and that I should be an encumbrance and perplexity, I am 
making up my mind to the chance.’ 

1 But what would you do ? ’ asked Ethel. 

‘ I don’t know. You should not ask such questions, Ethel.’ 

‘ Well! it won’t happen, so it is no use to talk about it,’ said 
Ethel. 1 Fancy my having made you cry ! ’ 

1 Very silly of me,’ said Meta, brightening and laughing, but 
sighing. ‘ I am only afraid Mrs. Arnott may think me individually 
unfit for the kind of life, as if I could not do what other women can. 
Do I look so ? ’ 

‘ You look as if you were meant to be put under a glass case ! ’ 
said Ethel, surveying the little elegant figure, whose great charac- 
teristic was a look of exquisite finish, not only in the features and 
colouring, the turn of the head, and the shape of the small rosy- 
tipped fingers, but in everything she wore, from the braids of black 
silk hair, to the little shoe on her foot, and even in the very light- 
ness and gaiety of her movements. 

‘ Oh ! Ethel ! ’ cried Meta, springing up in dismay, and looking 
at herself in the glass. ‘ What is the matter with me ? Do tell 
me ! ’ 

1 You’ll never get rid of it,’ said Ethel, £ unless you get yourself 
tattooed ! Even separation from Bellairs hasn’t answered. And, 
after all, I don’t think it would be any satisfaction to Norman, or 
papa. I assure you, Meta, whatever you may think of it, it is not 
so much bother to be prettier than needful, as it is to be uglier than 
needful.’ 

I What is needful ? ’ said Meta, much amused. 

I I suppose to be like Mary, so that nobody should take notice 
of one, but that one’s own people may have the satisfaction of say- 
ing, “ she is pleasing,” or “ she is in good looks.” I think Gertrude 
will come to that. That’s one comfort 

1 That is your own case, Ethel. 1 have heard those very things 
said of you.’ 

1 Of my hatchet face ! ’ said Ethel, contemptuously. 1 Some one 
must have been desperately bent on flattering the Member’s family.’ 

1 I could repeat more,’ said Meta, 1 if I were to go back to the 
Commemoration, and to the day you went home.’ 

Ethel crimsoned, and made a sign with her hand, exclaiming, 
Hark!’ 

‘ It went past.’ 

1 It was the omnibus. She must be walking down ! ’ Ethel 
breathed short, and wandered aimlessly about — Meta put her arm 
round her waist. 

‘ I did not think this would be so much to you,’ she said. 

1 0 Meta, it seems like dear mamma coming to see how we have 


268 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


been going on. And then papa ! I wish 1 had gone up to th« 
station with him.’ 

1 He has Richard.’ 

* Aye, but I am afraid Margaret is listening and will be restless, 
and have a palpitation, and I can’t go and see, or I shall disturb 
her. 0, I wish it were over.’ 

Meta stroked her, and soothed her, and assured her that all 
would do well, and presently they heard the click of the door. 
Ethel flew into the hall, where she stopped short, her heart beating 
high at the sound of overpoweringly familiar accents. 

She was almost relieved by detecting otherwise little resemblance; 
the height was nearly the same, but there was not the plump soft- 
ness of outline. Mrs. Arnott was small, thin, brisk and active, with 
a vivacious countenance, once evidently very fair and pretty, but 
aged and worn by toil, not trouble, for the furrows were the traces 
of smiles around her merry mouth, and beautiful blue eyes, that had 
a tendency to laugh and cry both at once. Hr. May, who had led 
her into the light, seemed to be looking her all over, while Richard 
was taking her wraps from her, and Ethel tried to encourage her- 
self to go forward. 

‘ Aye ! ’ said the Doctor, kissing her. ‘ I see you Flora now. 
I have found you again.’ 

‘ I found you as soon as I heard your voice, Richard,’ said she, 
‘ And now for the bairnies.’ 

1 Here is one, but there is but a poor show forthcoming to-night. 
Do you know her ? ’ 

• There was an unspeakable joy in being pressed in aunt Flora’s 
arms, like a returning beam from the sunshine of seven years ago. 

‘ This must be Ethel ! My dear, how you tower above me — 
you that I left in arms ! And,’ as she advanced into the drawing- 
room — c why, surely this is not Margaret.’ 

‘ A Margaret — not ihe Margaret. I wish I were,’ said Meta, 
as Mrs. Arnott stood with an arm on her shoulder, in the midst of 
an embrace, Dr. May enjoying her perplexity and Meta’s blushes. 
1 See, Flora, these black locks never belonged to Calton Hill daisies, 
yet a daisy of my own she is — Can’t you guess ? ’ 

‘ Miss Rivers ! ’ exclaimed Mrs. Arnott ; and though she kissed 
her cordially, Meta suspected a little doubt and disappointment. 

1 Yes,’ said Dr. May. ‘ We change Mary for this little woman 
as Flora’s lady-in-waiting, when she and her husband go out yachting 
and shooting.’ 

1 Flora and her husband ! There’s a marvellous sound ! Where 
are they ? ’ 

‘ They are staying at Eccleswood Castle,’ said Ethel ; 4 and Mary 
with them. They would have been at home to receive you, but your 
note yesterday took us all by surprise. Norman is away too, at a 
College meeting.’ m 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN. 


269 


‘ And Margaret — my Margaret ! Does not she come down-sl airs ? 

1 All ! poor dear,’ said Dr. May, ‘ she has not been in this room 
since that sultry day in July.’ 

1 The eighteenth,’ said Richard ; the precision of the date mark- 
ing but too well the consciousness that it was an epoch. 

‘We can keep her quieter up-stairs,’ said Dr. May; ‘but you 
must not see her to-night. She will enjoy you very much to-mor- 
row ; but excitement at night always does her harm, so we put her 
to bed, and told her to think about no one.’ 

Mrs. Arnott looked at him as if longing, but dreading, to ask 
further, and allowed her nephew and niece to seat her at the table, 
and attend to her wants, before she spoke again. ‘ Then the 
babies.’ 

‘ We don’t keep babies, Gertrude would tell you,’ said Dr. May. 
‘ There are three great creatures, whom Ethel barbarously ordered 
olf to bed. Ethel is master here, you must know, Flora — we all 
mind what she says.’ 

‘ 0 papa,’ pleaded Ethel, distressed, ‘ you know it was because I 
thought numbers might be oppressive.’ 

‘I never dispute,’ said Dr. May. ‘We bow to a beneficial 
despotism, and never rebel, do we, Meta ? ’ 

Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Meta rejoined. 
‘ You are making Mrs. Arnott think her the strong-minded woman 
of the family, who winds up the clock and cuts the bread.’ 

‘ No ; that she makes you do, when the boys are away.’ 

‘ Of course,’ said Ethel, ‘ I can’t be vituperated about hunches of 
bread. I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea.’ 

‘Your tea is very good,’ said Richard. 

‘ See how they propitiate her,’ maliciously observed the Doctor. 

‘ Not at all ; it is Richard standing up for his pupil,’ said Ethel. 
‘ It is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of 
mortal tea ; but the boys expect it to last from seven o’clock to ten, 
through an unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that 
a teapot must be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, “ Died 
of unreasonable requirements.” ’ 

Mrs. Arnott looked from one to the other, amused, observant, 
and perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness, which 
"'.rings up family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion. 

‘ Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys ? ’ she asked. ‘ My 
dear Harry — I presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there 
any hope of my seeing him ? ’ 

‘ Great hope,’ said Dr. May. ‘ He has been in the Baltic fleet, 
a pretty little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any 
day. My old lion ! I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora.’ 

‘ Dear fellow ! his only fault was being homesick, and making me 
:atch the infection.’ 

‘ I am glad you did not put olf your coming,’ said Dr. May, gravely 


270 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


‘ You are in time for the Consecration,’ said Richard. 

‘ Ah ! Cocksmoor ! When will it take place ? ’ 

‘ On St. Andrew’s day. It is St. Andrew’s Church, and tho 
Bishop fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector 
cannot he present.’ 

1 Hector ? ’ 

‘ Hector Ernescliffe — poor Alan’s brother, whom we don’t w el 
know from ourselves.’ 

‘ And you are Curate, Ritchie ? ’ said his aunt , 1 if I may still call 
you so. You are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be.’ 

‘ Church mouse to Cocksmoor,’ said Hr. May, £ nearly as poor. 
We are to invest his patrimony in a parsonage, as soon as our 
architect in ordinary can find time for it. Spencer — you remember 
him ? ’ 

‘ 1 remember how you and he used to be inseparable ! And he 
has settled down, at last, by your side ? ’ 

‘ The two old Doctors hope to bolster each other up till Mr. Tom 
comes down with modern science in full force. That boy will do 
great things — he has as clear a head as I ever knew.’ 

‘ And more — ’ said Ethel. 

‘ Aye, as sound a heart. I must find you his tutor’s letter, Flora. 
They have had a row in his tutor’s house at Eton, and our boys made 
a gallant stand for the right, Tom especially, guarding the little 
fellows, in a way that does one good to hear of.’ 

‘ “ I must express my strong sense of gratitude for his truth, up* 
rightness, and moral courage,” ’ quoted Meta. 

‘ Ah, ha ! you have learnt it by heart ! I know you copied it out 
for Norman, who has the best right to rejoice.’ 

1 You have a set of children to be proud of, Richard ! ’ exclaimed 
Mrs. Arnott. 

1 To be surpris'd at — to be thankful for,’ said Dr. May, almosf 
inarticulately. 

To see her father so happy with Mrs. Arnott necessarily drew 
Ethel’s heart towards her ; and, when they had bidden him good 
night, the aunt instantly assumed a caressing confidence towards 
Ethel, particularly comfortable to one consciously backward and 
awkward, and making her feel as intimate as if the whole space of 
her rational life had not elapsed since their last meeting. 

‘ Must you go, my dear ? ’ said her aunt, detaining her over her 
fire. ‘ I can’t tell how to spare you. I want to hear of your dear 
father. He looks aged and thin, Ethel, and yet that sweet expres- 
sion is the same as ever. Is he very anxious about poor Margaret ? ’ 

‘ Not exactly anxious,’ said Ethel, mournfully — ‘there is not much 
room for that.’ 

‘ My dear Ethel — you don’t mean ? — I thought — ’ 

‘ I suppose we ought to have written more fully,’ said Ethel, ‘ but 
it has been very gradual, and we never say it to ourselves She is 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


271 


as bright, and happy, and comfortable as ever, in general, and, per« 
haps, may be so for a long time yet, but each attack weakens her. 

‘ What kind of attack ? ’ 

‘ Faintness — sinking. It is suspended action of the heart. The 
injury to the spine deranged the system, and then the long suspense, 
and the shock — It is not one thing more than another, but it must 
go on. Dr. Spencer will tell you. You won’t ask papa too much 
about it ? ’ 

‘ No, indeed. And he bears it — ’ 

‘ He bears everything. Strength comes up out of his great 
lovingness. But, oh ! I sometimes long that he may never have any 
more sorrows.’ 

‘ My poor child ! ’ said Mrs. Arnott, putting her arm round her 
niece’s waist. 

Ethel rested her head on her shoulder. £ Aunt Flora ! aunt Flora ! 
If any words could tell what Margaret has been ever since we were 
left. 0, don’t make me talk or think of ourselves without her. It 
is wrong to wish. And when you see her, that dear face of hers 
will make you happy in the present. Then,’ added Ethel, not able 
to leave off with such a subject, ‘you have our Norman to see.’ 

‘ Ah ! Norman’s project is too delightful to us; but I fear what 
it may be to your father.’ 

‘ He gives dear Norman, as his most precious gift, the flower and 
pride of us all.’ 

‘ But, Ethel, I am quite frightened at Miss Bivers’s looks. Is it 
possible that — 5 

‘ Aunt Flora,’ broke in Ethel, ‘ don’t say a word against it. The 
choicest goods wear the best ; and whatever woman can do, Meta 
Bivers can. Norman is a great tall fellow, as clever as possible, 
but perfectly feckless. If you had him there alone, he would be a 
bee without a queen — ’ 

‘ Well, but — ’ 

; Listen,’ continued Ethel. ‘ Meta is a concentration of spirit and 
energy, delights in practical matters, is twice the housewife I am, 
and does all like an accomplishment. Between them, they will 
make a noble missionary — ’ 

‘ But she looks — ■’• 

‘ Hush,’ continued the niece. ‘ You will think me domineering; 
but please don’t give any judgment without seeing ; for they look to 
you as an arbitrator, and casual words will weigh.’ 

‘ Thank you, Ethel ; perhaps you are right. When does he think 
of coming out ? ’ 

‘ When he is ordained — some time next year.’ 

‘ Does she live with you ? ’ 

‘ I suppose she lives with Flora ; but we always manage to get 
her when Norman is at home.’ 

‘ You have told me nothing of Flora or Mary.’ 


272 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


1 1 have little real to tell. Good old Mary ! I dare say Harrj 
talked to you plentifully of her. She is a — a nice old darling, 1 
said Ethel, fondly. ‘We want her again very much, and did not 
quite bargain for the succession of smart visits that she has been 
paying.’ 

‘ With Flora ? ’ 

‘ Yes. Unluckily George Rivers has taken an aversion to the 
Grange, and I have not seen Flora this whole year.’ 

Ethel stopped short, and said that she must not keep Margaret 
expecting her. Perhaps her aunt guessed that she had touched the 
true chord of anxiety. 

The morning brought a cheering account cf Margaret ; and Mrs. 
Arnott was to see her directly after breakfast. In the meantime, the 
firm limbs, blue eyes, and rosy face of Gertrude seemed a fair repre- 
sentation of the little bridesmaid, whom she remembered. 

A very different niece did she find up-stairs, though the smiling, 
overflowing eyes, and the fond, eager look of recognition, as if asking 
to be taken to her bosom, had in them all the familiarity of old 
tenderness. ‘ Auntie ! dear auntie ! that you should have come back 
to me again ! ’ 

Mrs. Arnott fondly caressed her, but could not speak at first, 
for even her conversation with Ethel had not prepared her for so 
wasted and broken an appearance. Dr. May spoke briskly of Mar- 
garet’s having behaved very well, and slept like a good child, told 
Margaret where he had to go that morning, and pointed out to 
Mrs. Arnott some relics of herself still remaining ; but the nervous 
tremulousness of manner did not much comfort her, although Mar- 
garet answered cheerfully. Nothing was so effectual in composing 
the aunt, as Aubrey’s coming headlong in to announce the gig, and 
to display to Margaret his last design for a Cathedral — drawing 
plans being just now his favourite sport. 

1 Architecture is all our rage at present,’ said Margaret, as her 
father hurried away. 

‘ I am so glad to have come in for the Consecration ! ’ said 
Mrs. Arnott following her niece’s lead. ‘ Is that a model of the 
Church ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! yes,’ cried Margaret, lighting up. ‘ Richard made it for me.’ 

‘ May I shew it to aunt Flora ? ’ said Aubrey. 

‘ Bring it here, if you can lift it,’ said Margaret ; and aunt 
Flora helping, the great cumbersome thing was placed beside her, 
whilst she smiled and welcomed it like a child, and began an eager 
exhibition. Was it not a beautiful little pierced spire ? — that was 
an extravagance of Dr. Spencer’s own. Papa said he could not 
ask Captain Gordon to sanction it — the model did it no justice, but 
it was so very beautiful in the rich creamy stone rising up on the 
moor, and the blue sky looking through, and it caught the sunset 
lights so beautifully. So animated was her description, that 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 273 

Mrs. Arnott could not help asking, £ Why my dear, when have you 
seen it ? ’ 

‘ Never,’ said Margaret, with her sweet smile. ‘ I have never 
seen Cocksmoor ; but Dr. Spencer and Meta are always sketching 
it for me, and Ethel would not let an effect pass without telling mo. 
I shall hear how it strikes you next.’ 

1 1 hope to see it by-and-by. What a comfortable deep porch ! 
If we could build such Churches in the Colonies, Margaret ! ’ 

' See what little Meta will do for you ! Yes, we had the porch 
deep for a shelter — that is copied from the west-door of the Minster, 
and is it not a fine high-pitched roof ? J ohn Taylor, who is to be 
clerk, could not understand its being open ; he said, when he 
saw the timbers, that a man and his family might live up among 
them. They are noble oak beams ; we would not have any sham — . 
here Aubrey, take off the roof, and auntie will see the shape.’ 

‘ Like the ribs of a ship,’ explained Aubrey, unconscious that 
the meaning was deeper than his sister could express, and he con- 
tinued : £ Such fine oak beams ! I rode with Dr. Spencer one day 
last year to choose them. It is a two-aisled Church, you see, that 
a third may be added.’ 

Ethel came up as Aubrey began to absorb the conversation. 
£ Lessons, Aubrey,’ she said. £ So, Margaret, you are over your 
dear model ? ’ 

£ Not forestalling you too much I hope, Ethel, dear,’ said Mar- 
garet ; 1 as you will shew her the Church itself.’ 

1 You have the best right,’ said Ethel; ‘ but come, Aubrey, we 
must not dawdle.’ 

1 I will shew you the stones I laid myself, aunt Flora,’ said 
Aubrey, running off without much reluctance. 

‘ Ethel has him in excellent order,’ said Mrs. Arnott. 

£ That she has; she brings him on beautifully, and makes him 
enjoy it. She teaches him arithmetic in some wonderful scientific 
way that nobody can understand but Norman, and he not the 
details ; but he says it is all coming right, and will make him a 
capital mathematical scholar, though he cannot add up pounds 
shillings and pence. 

‘I expected to be struck with Ethel,’ said Mrs. Arnott; £ and — ’ 

1 Well,’ said Margaret, waiting. 

1 Yes, she does exceed my expectations. There is something 
curiously winning in that quaint, quick, decisive manner of hers. 
There is so much soul in the least thing she does, as if she could 
not be indifferent for a moment.’ 

1 Exactly — exactly so,’ said Margaret, delighted. £ It is really 
doing everything with all her might. Little, simple, everyday 
matters did not come naturally to her as to other people, and the 
having had to make them duties has taught her to do them with 


27 d 


HIE DAISY CHAIN. 


that earnest manner, as if there were a right and wrong to her in 
each little mechanical household office.’ 

* Harry described her to me thus,’ said Mrs. Arnott, smiling : 

‘ “ As to Ethel, she is an odd fish ; but Cocksmoor will make a 
woman of her after all.” ’ 

1 Quite true ! ’ cried Margaret. 1 1 should not have thought Harry 
had so much discernment in those days. Cocksmoor gave the 
stimulus, and made Ethel what she is. Look there — over the 
mantel-piece, are the designs for the painted glass, all gifts, except 
the East window. That one of St. Andrew introducing the lad with 
the loaves and fishes is Ethel’s window. It is the produce of the 
hoard she began this time seven years, when she had but one 
sovereign in the world. She kept steadily on with it, spending 
nothing on herself that she could avoid, always intending it for the 
Church, and it was just enough to pay for this window.’ 

1 Most suitable,’ said Mrs. Arnott. 

‘Yes; Mr. Wilmot and I persuaded her into it; but I do not 
think she would have allowed it, if she had seen the application we 
made of it — the gift of her girlhood blessed and extended. Dear 
King Etheldred, it is the only time I ever cheated her.’ 

‘ This is a beautiful east window. And this little one — St. Mar- 
garet I see.’ 

‘ Ah ! papa would not be denied choosing that for his subject. We 
reproached him with legendary saints, and overwhelmed him with 
antiquarianism, to shew that the Margaret of the dragon was not 
the Margaret of the daisy ; but he would have it ; and said we might 
thank him for not setting his heart on St. Etheldreda.’ 

‘ This one ? ’ 

‘ That is mine,’ said Margaret, very low ; and her aunt abstained 
from remark, though unable to look, without tears, at the ship of the 
Apostles, the calming of the storm, and the scroll, with the verse — 

‘ He bringetli them unto the haven where they would he.’ 

Beneath were the initals, ‘ A. II. E.,’ and the date of the year, the 
only memorials of the founder. 

Margaret next drew attention to St. Andrew with his cross 

Meta’s gift. ‘ And, besides,’ she said, ‘ George Eivers made us a 
beautiful present, which Meta hunted up. Old Mr. Eivers, knowing 
no better, once bought all the beautiful carved fittings of’ a Chapel 
in France, meaning to fit up a library with them; but, happily, he 
never did, and a happy notion came into Meta’s head, so she found 
them out, and Dr. Spencer has adapted them, and set them all to 
rights ; and they are most exquisite. You never saw such foliage.’ 

Thus Margaret proceeded with the description of everything in 
the Church, and all the little adventures of the building, as if sh6 
could not turn away from the subject ; and her aunt listened and 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 27 £ 

wondered, and, when called away, that Margaret might rest befora 
nurse came to dress her, she expressed her wonder to Meta. 

1 Yes,’ was the answer ; ‘ it is her chief occupation and interest. 
I do not mean that she has not always her own dear full sympathy 
for everyone’s concerns, but Cocksmoor is her concern, almost more 
than even Ethel’s. I think she could chronicle every stage in the 
building better than Dr. Spencer himself, and it is her daily delight 
to hear his histories of his progress. And not only with the Church 
but the people ; she knows all about every family ; Richard and 
Ethel tell her all their news ; she talks over the school with the 
mistress every Sunday, and you cannot think what a feeling there 
is for her at Cocksmoor. A kind message from Miss May has an 
effect that the active workers cannot always produce.’ 

Mrs. Arnott saw that Meta was right, when, in the afternoon, she 
walked, with her nieces, to see Cocksmoor. It was not a desolate 
sight as in old times, for the fair edifice, rising on the slope, gave 
an air of protection to the cottages, which seemed now to have a 
centre of unity, instead of lying forlorn and scattered. Nor were 
they as wretched in themselves, for the impulse of civilization had 
caused windows to be mended and railings to be tidied, and Richard 
promoted, to the utmost, cottage gardening, so that, though there 
was an air of poverty, there was no longer an appearance of reck- 
less destitution and hopeless neglect. 

In the cottages, Mrs. Taylor had not entirely ceased to speak 
with a piteous voice, even though she told of the well-doing of her 
girls at service ; but Granny Hall’s merry content had in it some- 
thing now of principle, and Sam had married a young Fordholm 
wife, who promised to be a pattern for Cocksmoor. Everyone asked 
after Miss May, with a tenderness and affection that Mrs. Arnott 
well appreciated ; and when they went into the large fresh school, 
where Richard was hearing a class, Cherry Elwood looked quite 
cheered and enlivened by hearing that she had been able to enjoy 
seeing her aunt. Mrs. Arnott was set to enlighten the children about 
the little brown girls whom she was wont to teach, and came away 
with a more brilliant impression of their intelligence than she might 
have had, if she had not come to them fresh from the Antipodes. 

She had to tell Margaret all her impressions on her return, 
and very pretty smiles repaid her commendations. She under- 
stood better the constant dwelling on the subject, as she perceived 
how little capable Margaret was of any employment. The book, 
the writing materials, and work-basket were indeed placed by her 
side, but very seldom did the feeble fingers engage in any of the 
occupations once so familiar — now and then a pencilled note would 
be sent to Flora, or to Hector Ernescliffe, or a few stitches be set 
in her work, or a page or two turned of a book, but she was far 
more often perfectly still, living, assuredly in no ordinary sphere 
of human life, but never otherwise than cheerful, and open to the 


276 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


various tidings and interests which, as Ethel had formerly said, 
shifted before her like scenes in a magic lantern, and perhaps, with 
less of substance than in those earlier days, when her work among 
them was not yet done, and she was not, as it were, set aside from 
them. They were now little more than shadows reflected from the 
world whence ghe was passing. 

Yet her home was not sad. When Dr. Spencer came in the 
evening, and old Edinburgh stories were discussed, Dr. May talked 
with spirit, and laughed with the merry note that Mrs. Arnott so 
well remembered, and Meta Rivers chimed in with her gay, saucy 
repartees, nor, though Richard was always silent, and Ethel’s brow 
seemed to bear a weight of thought, did it seem as if their spirits 
were depressed ; while there was certainly no restraint on the glee 
of Blanche, Aubrey, and Gertrude, who were running into Mar- 
garet’s room, and making as much noise there as they chose. 

Mrs. Arnott was at home with the whole family from the first, 
and in everyone’s confidence ; but what she enjoyed above all was, 
the sitting in Margaret’s room in the morning, when there was no 
danger of interruption, the three children being all safe captives to 
their lessons, and Meta, in Richard’s workshop, illuminating texts 
on zinc scrolls for the Church. 

Margaret came out more in these interviews. It had been a 
kind of shyness that made her talk so exclusively of the Church at 
the first meeting ; she had now felt her way, and knew again — and 
realized — -the same kind aunt with whom she had parted in her 
childhood, and now far dearer, since she herself was better able to 
appreciate her, and with a certain resemblance to her mother, that 
was unspeakably precious and soothing to one deprived, as Margaret 
had been, at the commencement of her illness and anxiety. 

She could hardly see her aunt come near her, without thanking 
her for having come home, and saying how every time she awoke, 
it was with the sense that something was comfortable, then remem- 
bering it was aunt Flora’s being in the house. She seemed to have 
a feeling, as if telling everything to her aunt were like rendering up 
her account to her mother, and, at different times, she related the 
whole, looking back on the various decisions she had had to make 
or to influence, and reviewing her own judgments, though often with 
self-blame, not with acuteness of distress, but rather with a humble 
trust in the Infinite Mercy that would atone for all shortcomings 
and infirmities, truly sorrowed for. 

On the whole it was a peaceful and grateful retrospect ; the 
brothers all doing so well in their several ways, and such a comfort 
to their father. Tom, concerning whom she had made the greatest 
mistake, might be looked upon as rescued by Norman. Aubrey 
Margaret said, smiling, was Ethel’s child, and had long been off her 
mind ; Hector, to her quite a brother, would miss her almost more 
than her own brothers, but good honest fellow, he had a home here; 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


277 


and, whispered Margaret, smiling and glowing a little, 1 don’t tell 
anyone, for it is a secret of secrets. Hector told me one evening 
that, if he could be very steady, he hoped he might yet have Blanche 
at Maplewood. Poor little White Mayflower, it won’t be for want 
of liking on her part, and she so blushes and watches when Hector 
comes near, that I sometimes think he may have said something 
like it to her.’ 

Mrs. Arnott gave no opinion on the plan for Norman and Meta; 
but Margaret, however, took all for granted, and expressed warm 
hopes for their sakes, that they would go out with Mrs. Arnott ; 
then, when the suggestion seemed to astonish her aunt, who thought 
they were waiting for his Ordination, she said , 1 The fact is, that he 
would like to be ordained where he is to work ; but I believe they 
do not like to say anything about the wedding, because of me. 
Now, of all persons, I must chiefly rejoice in what may help to 
teach in those islands. I cannot bear to be a hindrance. Whatever 
happens, Aunt Flora, will you take care that they know this ? ’ 

As to her father, Margaret was at rest. He had much more 
calmness than when he was more new to grief, and could bear far 
more patiently and hopefully than at first. He lived more on his 
affections above, and much as he loved those below, he did not rest 
in them as once, and could better afford to have them removed. 
‘ Besides,’ said Margaret, serenely, 1 it has been good for him to 
have been gradually weaned from depending on me, so that it is 
Ethel who is really necessary to him.’ 

For herself, Margaret was perfectly content and happy. Sho 
knew the temptation of her character had been to be the ruler and 
manager ef everything, and she saw it had been well for her to have 
been thus assigned the part of Mary, rather than of Martha. She 
remembered with thankful joy the engagement with Alan Ernes- 
cliffe, and though she still wore tokens of mourning for him, it was 
with a kind of pleasure in them. There had been so little promise 
of happiness from the first, that there was far more peace in think- 
ing of him as sinking into rest in Harry’s arms, than as returning to 
grieve over her decline ; and that last gift of his, the Church, had 
afforded her continual delight, and above all other earthly pursuits, 
smoothed away the languor and weariness of disease, as she slowly 
sank to join him. Now that her aunt had come to bring back a 
sunbeam of her childhood, Margaret declared that she had no more 
grief or care, except one, and that a very deep and sad one — 
namely, poor Flora. 

Mrs. Arnott had at first been inclined to fear that her god- 
daughter was neglecting her own family, since she had not been at 
home this whole year, but the slightest betrayal of this suspicion 
roused Margaret to an eager defence. She had not a doubt that 
Flora would gladly have been with her, but she believed that she 
was not acting by her own choice, or more truly, that her husband 


278 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


was so devoted to her, that she felt the more hound to follow his 
slightest wishes, however contrary to her own. The season had been 
spent in the same whirl that had, last year, been almost beyond 
human power, even when stimulated by enjoyment and success; 
and now, when her spirits were lowered, and her health weakened, 
Meta had watched and trembled for her, though never able to obtain 
an avowal that it was an overstrain, and while treated most affec- 
tionately, never admitted within her barrier of reserve. 

‘ If I could see poor Flora comforted, or if even she would only 
let me enter into her troubles,’ Margaret said, sighing, ‘ I should be 
content.’. 

The Consecration day came near, and the travellers began to 
return. Meta was in a state of restlessness, which in her was very 
pretty, under the disguise of a great desire to be useful. She 
fluttered about the house, visited Margaret, played with Gertrude, 
set the drawing-room ornaments to rights — a task which Ethel was 
very glad to depute to her, and made a great many expeditions into 
the garden to put together autumn nosegays for the vases — finally 
discovering that Ethel’s potichomanie vases on the staircase window, 
must have some red and brown leaves. 

She did not come back quite so soon with them, and Mrs. Ar- 
uott, slyly looking out of the window, reported, ‘ Ha ! he is come 
then ! At least, I see the little thing has found — ’ 

1 Something extremely unlike itself,’ said Hr. May, laughing. 

1 Something I could easily set down as a student at Edinburgh, 
thirty years ago. That’s the very smile ! I remember dear Maggie 
being more angry than I ever saw her before, because Mr. Fleet 
said that you smiled to shew your white teeth.’ 

‘ That is the best shadow of Maggie I ever saw,’ said Hr. May. 
‘ She has taught the lad to smile. That is what I call a pretty 
sight ! ’ 

‘ Come, Richard, it is a shame for old folks like us to stand spy- 
ing them ! ’ 

‘ They care very little for me,’ said Hr. May, 1 but I shall have 
them in. Cold winds blowing about that little head ! Ah ! here 
they are. Fine leaves you gather, Miss 1 Very red and brown.’ 

Meta rather liked, than otherwise, those pretty teazings of Hr. 
May, but they always made Norman colour extremely, and he par- 
ried them by announcing news. ‘ No, not the Bucephalus, a mar- 
riage in high life, a relation.’ 

1 Not poor Mary ! ’ cried Ethel. 

‘ Mary ! what could make you think of her ? ’ 

‘ As a hen thinks of her ducklings when they go into waters be- 
yond her ken,’ said Ethel. ‘ Well, as long as it is not Mary I 
don’t care!’ 

‘ High life ! ’ repeated Meta. ‘ 0, it can be only Agatha Langdale 

‘ There’s only Lord Cosham further to guess,’ said Ethel.° 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


279 


‘ Eh ! why not young Ogilvie ? 5 said Dr. May. 1 1 am right, I 
see. W ell, who is the lady ? * 

1 A Miss Dunbar — a nice girl that I met at Glenbracken. Hei 
property fits in with theirs, and I believe his father has been wish- 
ing it for a long time.’ 

1 It does not sound too romantic,’ said Meta. 

‘ He writes as if he had the sense of having been extremely du- 
tiful/ said Norman. 

‘ No doubt, thinking it needful in addressing a namesake, who 
has had an eye to the main chance,’ said the Doctor. £ Don’t throw 
stones, young people.’ 

‘ Well ! ’ exclaimed Meta; ‘ he did not look as if he would go 
and do such a stupid thing as that ! ’ 

1 Probably, it is anything but a stupid thing,’ said Dr. May. 

I You are using him very ill among you,’ said Norman, eagerly. 
1 I believe her to be excellent in every way ; he has known her from 
childhood ; he writes as if he were perfectly contented, and saw 
every chance of happiness.’ 

‘ None the less for having followed his father’s wishes — I am 
glad he did,’ said Ethel, coming to her brother’s side. 

‘ I dare say you are right,’ was Meta’s answer; ‘ but I am dis- 
appointed in him. He always promised to come and stay with you, 
and made such friends at Oxford, and he never came.’ 

I I fancy there was a good deal to hinder him,’ said Norman ; 
and, as Mrs. Arnott proceeded to inquiries after the Ogilvies in 
general, the Master of Glenbracken was allowed to drop. 

Meta, however, renewed the subject when walking to the Minster 
that evening with Norman. 

‘ You may defend Mr. Ogilvie, Norman, but it is not what I 
should have expected from him. Why did he make promises, and 
then neglect his relations ? ’ 

‘ I believe that conscientiously he did not dare to come,' said 
Norman. ‘ I know that he was greatly struck with Ethel at the 
time of the Commemoration, and therefore I could never again press 
him to come here.’ 

; 0 Norman, you hard-hearted monster ! What a bad conductor ! ’ 

1 1 did not wish to be a conductor,’ said Norman. ‘ If you had 
seen Glenbracken and the old people, you would perceive that it 
would not have been suitable on our part to promote anything of 
the kind.’ 

1 Would they have been so violent ? ’ 

‘ Not violent, but it would have been a severe struggle. They 
are good, kind people, but with strong prejudices ; and, though I 
have no doubt they would have yielded to steady attachment on 
their son’s part, and such conduct as Ethel’s would have been, I 
could not lead in that direction.’ 

‘ Is that pride, Norman ? ’ 


280 


THE DAIS'S CHAIN. 


1 1 hope not.’ 

I It is doing by others as you were doing by yourself,’ half 
whispered Meta ; ‘ but, after all, if he had no constancy, Ethel had 
an escape.’ 

I I was afraid that she had been rather touched, but I am glad 
to find myself mistaken.’ 

‘ If you thought so, how could you make such a public announce- 
ment ? ’ 

He laughed. 1 1 had made myself so nervous as to the effect, 
that, in desperation, I took her own way, and came out at once with 
it as unconsciously as I could.’ 

‘Very naturally you acted unconsciousness! It was better 
than insulting her by seeming to condole. Not that I do, though, 
for she deserves more steadiness than he has shown ! If a man 
could appreciate her at all, I should have thought that it would 
have been once and for ever.’ 

1 Remember, he had barely known her a fortnight, and probably 
had no reason to believe that he had made any impression on her. 
He knew how such an attachment would grieve his parents, and, 
surely, he was acting dutifully, and with self-denial and considera- 
tion, in not putting himself in the way of being further attracted.’ 

‘Umph! You make a good defence, Norman, but I cannot 
forgive him for marrying somebody else, who cannot be Ethel’s 
equal.’ 

1 She is a good little girl; he will form her, and be very happy; 
perhaps more so than with a great soul and strong nature, like 
Ethel’s.’ 

1 Only he is a canny Scot, and not a Dr. Spencer ! ’ 

1 Too short acquaintance ! besides, there were the parents 
Moreover, what would become of home without Ethel ? ’ 

1 The unanswerable argument to make one contented,’ said Meta 
£ Ana, certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament, is not so 
very delightful that one would covet it for her.’ 

‘ Any more than she does for herself.’ 

Norman was right in his view of his friend’s motives, as well as 
of Ethel’s present feelings. If there had ever been any disappoint- 
ment about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away. She 
had never given away the depths of her heart, though the upper 
surface had been stirred. All had long subsided, and she could 
think freely of him as an agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public 
career she should always be interested, without either a wish to 
partake it, or a sense of injury or neglect. She had her vocation, 
in her father, Margaret, the children, homo and Cocksmoor ; her 
mind and affections were occupied, and she never thought of wish- 
ing herself elsewhere. 

The new Church and the expected return of her sisters, en 


TI1E DAISY CHAIN. 281 

grossed many more of her thoughts than did anything relating tc 
Glenbracken. 

She could not hear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as 
was Margaret ; and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her 
good simple Mary might have had her head turned by gaiety. 

Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before, the Tuesday 
fixed for the Consecration, and stopped on their way, that they 
might see Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Meta. 

It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was, that 
Flora was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and 
fagged expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully 
shocked by the sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret’s 
frame. Yet she talked with composure of indifferent subjects — the 
yacht, the visits, the Bucephalus, the Church, and the arrangements 
for St. Andrew’s day. She owned herself overworked, and in need 
of rest, and, as she was not well enough to venture on being present 
at the Consecration, she undertook to spend the day with Margaret, 
thus setting the others at liberty. This Settled, she took her leave, 
for the journey had fatigued her greatly. 

During the short visit, Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, 
and looked so well dressed, and young-lady-like, that, in spite of 
her comfortable plump cheeks, Ethel felt quite afraid ! 

But the instant the carriage had driven off, there was a skipping, 
a hugging, a screaming, 1 0, it is so nice to be at home again ! ’ — and 
Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better 
looking and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, 
open and honest-faced, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her 
hands and arms more civilized, and her powers of conversation and 
self-possession developed. Mary-like were her caresses of Ger- 
trude, Mary-like her inquiries for Cocksmoor, Mary-like her insist- 
ing on bringing her boxes into Margaret’s room, her exulting 
exhibition of all the pretty things that Flora and George had 
given to her, and the still more joyous bestowal of presents upon 
everybody. 

Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity dimin- 
ished. If she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her 
satisfaction was in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and 
a grand table ; her knowledge of the world only reached to pro- 
nouncing everything unlike home, “ so funny ; ” she had relished 
most freshly and innocently every pleasure that she could under- 
stand, she had learnt every variety of fancy work to teach Blanche 
and Miss Bracy, had been the delight of every school-room and 
nursery, had struck up numberless eternal friendships and corres- 
pondences with girls younger and shyer than herself, and her chief 
vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora insisted on her 
being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights could not be 


282 


THE DAIS l r CHAIN. 


shared by everyone at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora could not 
bear to look at little children. 

Grievous complaints were preferred by the dwellers in the attics 
the next morning, that Mary and Blanche had talked to an unmen- 
tionable hour of the night ; but, on the whole, Blanche was rather 
doubtful whether Mary had made the most of her opportunities of 
observation. 


CHAPTEE XXV. 


Behold, with pearls they glittering stand, 

Thy peaceful gates to all expand, 

By grace and. strength divinely shed, 

Each mortal, thither may be led ; 

Who. kindled by Christ's love will dare 
All earthly sufferings now to bear. 

By many a salutary stroke, 

By many a weary blow, that broke, 

Or polished, with a workman’s skill, 

The stones that form that glorious pile ; 

They all are fitly framed to lie 
In their appointed place on high.’ 

Ancient Hymn fob, the Dedication of a Ciiukch. 

The thirtieth of November dawned with the grave brightness of an 
autumn day, as the sun slowly mounted from the golden east, drink- 
ing up the mists that rose tardily, leaving the grass thickly 
bedewed. 

The bells of Stoneborough Minster were ringing gladsome peals, 
and the sunshine had newly touched the lime trees, whose last 
bright yellow leaves were gently floating down, as the carriage 
from the Grange, drew up at Dr. May’s door. 

Norman opened it, to claim Meta at once for the walk ; Mrs. 
Arnott and Mary had gone on to assist Bichard in his final arrange- 
ments, but even before Cocksmoor, with Ethel, was now the care of 
Margaret ; and she had waited with her father to keep all bustle 
from her room, and to commit her into the charge of Flora and of 
nurse. Ethel seemed quite unwilling to go. There was that 
strange oppressed feeling on her as if the attainment of her wishes 
were joy too great to be real — as if she would fain hold off from it 
at the climax, and linger with the sister who had shared all with 
her, and to whom that Church was even more than to herself. 
She came back, and back again, with fresh injunctions, sometimes 
forgetting the very purpose of her return, as if it had been only an 
excuse for looking at Margaret’s countenance, and drinking in her 
sympathy from her face ; but she was to go in George s carriage, 
and he was not a man to allow of loitering. He became so impatient 
of Ethel’s delays, that she perceived that he could bear them no 
longer, gave her final kiss, and whispered, ‘In spirit with us! 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


283 


then ran down and was seized on by George, who had alr^adj 
packed in the children and Miss Bracy, and was whirled away. 

‘ Flora dear,’ said Margaret, 1 do you dislike having the window 
opened ? ’ 

Flora threw it up, protesting, in reply to her sister’s scruples, 
that she liked the air. ‘ You always spoilt me,’ said Margaret, 
fondly. 1 Come and lie down by me. It is very nice to have you 
here,’ she added, as Flora complied ; and she took her hand and 
fondled it. ‘ It is like the old times to have you here taking care 
cf me.’ 

‘ Very unlike them in some ways,’ said Flora. 

* It has been a great renewal of still older times,’ said Margaret, 
‘ to have aunt Flora here. I hope you will get to know her, Flora, 
it is so like having mamma here,’ and she looked in her sister’s face 
as she spoke. 

Flora did not reply, but she lay quite still, as if there were a charm 
in the perfect rest of being alone with Margaret, making no effort, 
and being able to be silent. Time passed on, how long they knew 
not, but, suddenly, a thrill shot through Margaret’s frame; she 
raised her hand and lifted her head, with an eager ‘ Hark ! ’ 

Flora could hear nothing. 

‘ The bells — his bells ! ’ said Margaret, all one radiant look of 
listening, as Flora opened the window further, and the breeze wafted 
in the chime, softened by distance. The carnation tinted those 
thin white cheeks, eyes and smile beamed with joy, and uplifted fin- 
ger and parted lips seemed marking every note of the cadence. 

It ceased. ‘ Alan ! Alan ! ’ said she. ‘ It is enough ! I am 
ready ! ’ 

The somewhat alarmed look on Flora’s face recalled her, and, 
smiling, she held out her hand for the Consecration books, saying, 
‘ Let us follow the service. It will be best for us both.’ 

Slowly, softly, and rather monotonously, Flora read on, till she 
had come more than half through the first Lesson. Her voice grew 
husky and she sometimes paused as if she could not easily proceed. 
Margaret begged her to stop, but she would not cease, and went on 
reading, though almost whispering, till she came to, “ If they re- 
turn to Thee with all their heart and with all their soul in the 
land of their captivity, whither they have carried them captives, and 
pray toward their land, which Thou gavest unto their fathers, and 
toward the City which Thou hast chosen, and toward the House 
which I have built for Thy Name; then hear Thou from the 
Heavens, even from Thy dwelling-place — ” 

Flora could go no further ; she strove, but one of her tearless 
sobs cut her short. She turned her face aside, and as Margaret be- 
gan to say something tender, she exclaimed, with low, hasty utter- 
ance, 1 Margaret ! Margaret ! pray for me ! for it is a hard captivity, 


284 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


and my licart is very, very sore. Oh ! pray for me, that it may all 
be forgiven me — and that I may see my child again ! 5 

1 My Flora ; my own poor, dear Flora ! do I not pray ? Oh ! 
look up, look up. Think how He loves you. If I love you so 
much, how much more does not He ? Come near me, Flora. Be 
patient, and I know peace will come ! ’ 

The words had burst from Flora uncontrollably. She was aware, 
the next instant, that she had given way to harmful agitation, and 
resuming her quiescence, partly by her own will, partly from the 
soothing effect of Margaret’s words and tone, she allowed herself to 
be drawn close to her sister, and hid her face in the pillow, while 
Margaret’s hands were folded over her, and words of blessing and 
prayer were whispered with a fervency that made them broken.- 

Ethel, meanwhile, stood between Aubrey and Gertrude, hardly 
able to believe it was not a dream, as she beheld the procession en- 
ter the Aisle, and heard the Psalm that called on those doors to lift 
up their heads for Him who should enter. There was an almost 
bewildered feeling — could it indeed be true, as she followed the 
earlier part of the service, which set apart that building as a 
Temple for ever separate from all commoif uses. She had imagined 
the scene so often that she could almost have supposed the present, 
one of her many imaginations ; but, by-and-by, the strangeness passed 
off and she was able to enter into, not merely to follow, the prayers, 
and to feel the deep thanksgiving that such had been the crown of 
her feeble efforts. Margaret was in her mind the whole time, wo- 
ven, as it were, into every supplication and every note of praise; 
and when there came the intercession for those in sickness and suf- 
fering, flowing into the commemoration of those departed in faith and 
fear, Ethel’s spirit sank for a moment at the conviction, that soon 
Margaret, like him, whom all must bear in mind on that day, might 
be included in that thanksgiving; yet, as the service proceeded, 
leaving more and more of earth behind, and the voices joined with 
Angel and Archangel, Ethel could lose the present grief, and only 
retain the certainty that, come what might, there was joy and union 
amid those who sung that Hymn of praise. Never had Ethel been 
so happy — not in the sense of the finished work — no, she had lost 
all that, but in being more carried out of herself than ever she had 
been before, the free spirit of praise so bearing up her heart that the 
cry of Glory came from her with such an exulting gladness, as might 
surely be reckoned as one of those foretastes of our Everlasting 
Life, not often vouchsafed even to the faithful, and usually sent to 
prepare strength for what may be in store. 

The blessing brought the sense of peace, which hung on her 
even while the sounds of movement began, and the congregation 
were emerging. As she came out, greetings, sentences of admira- 
tion of the Church, and of enquiry for "her absent sisters, were 
crowded upon her, as people moved towards the school, where a 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


285 


luncheon was provided for them to pass away the interval until eve 
ning service. The half-dozen oldest Cocksmoorites were, meantime 
to have a dinner in the former school-room, at the Elwood’s house 
and Ethel was anxious to see that all was right there, so, while the 
rest of her party were doing civil things, she gave her arm to Cher- 
ry, whose limping walk shewed her to be very tired. 

‘ Oh ! Miss Ethel ! ’ said Cherry, ‘if Miss May could only have 
been here ! ’ 

‘ Her heart is,’ said Ethel. 

‘Well, ma’am, I believe it is. You would not think, ma’am, 
how all the children take heed to anything about her. If I only 
begin to say “ Miss May told me — ” they are all like mice.’ 

‘. She has done more for the real good of Cocksmoor than any 
one else,’ said Ethel. 

More might have been said, but they perceived that they viere 
being overtaken by the body of clergy, who had been unrobing in the 
vestry. Ethel hastened to retreat within Mrs. Elwood’s wicket gate, 
but she was arrested by Richard, and found herself being presented 
to the Bishop, and the Bishop shaking hands with her, and saying 
that he had much wished to be introduced to her. 

Of course, that was because she was her father’s daughter, and by 
way of something to say. She mentioned what was going on at the 
cottage, whereupon the Bishop wished to go in and see the old 
people ; and, entering, they found the very comfortable-looking par- 
ty just sitting down to roast-beef and goose. John Taylor, in a 
new black coat, on acount of his Clerkship, presiding, at one end, 
and Mr. Elwood at the other, and Dame Hall finding conversation 
for the whole assembly , while Blanche, Aubrey, Gertrude, the lit- 
tle Larkinses, and the Abbotstoke Wilmots were ready to act as 
waiters with infinite delight. Not a whit daunted by the Bishop, 
who was much entertained by her merry manner, old Granny told 
him ‘ she had never seen nothing like it since the Jubilee, when the 
Squire roasted an ox whole, and there wasn’t none of it fit to eat ; 
and when her poor father got his head broken. Well, to be sure, 
who would have thought what would come of Sam’s bringing in the 
young gentleman and lady to see her the day her back was so bad ! ’ 

The Bishop said Graca, and left Granny to the goose, while he 
gave Ethel his arm, which she would have thought an unaccountable 
proceeding if she had not recollected that Richard might be consid- 
ered as host, and that she was his eldest sister forthcoming. 

No sooner, however, had they come beyond the wicket than she 
saw her father speaking to Will Adams, and there was that in the 
air of both which made it no surprise when Dr. May came up, say- 
ing, ‘ Ethel, I must carry you away; and, in explanation to the Bishop, 

‘ my poor girl at home is not so well.’ 

All was enquiry and sympathy. Ethel was frantic to be at 
home, and would have rushed off at once, if Richard had not held 


286 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


her fast, asking what good she would do by hurrying in, breathless 
and exhausted, so as to add to Flora’s fright and distress, the anx- 
:^ty which was most upon their minds, since she had never before 
witnessed one of the seizures, that were only too ordinary matters 
in the eyes of the home party. No one but Dr. May and Ethel 
should go. Richard undertook to tell the rest, and the gig making 
its appearance, Ethel felt that the peculiarly kind manner with 
which the Bishop pressed her hand, and gave them all good wishes, 
was like a continuation of his blessing to aid her, in her home scene 
of trial. 

Perhaps, it was well for her that her part in the Consecration 
festivities should end here ; at least so thought Mr. Wilrnot, who, 
though very sorry for the cause, could not wish her to have 
been present at the luncheon. She had not thought o* self hitherto, 
the Church was the gift of Alan and Margaret, the work of prepar- 
ing the people belonged to all alike, and she did not guess that, in 
the sight of others, she was not the nobody that she believed herself. 
Her share in the work at Cocksmoor was pretty well known, and 
Dr. Hoxton could not allow a public occasion to pass without 
speeches, such as must either have been very painful, or very hurt- 
ful to her. The absence of herself and her father, however, permit- 
ted a more free utterance of the general feeling ; and things were 
said, that did indeed make the rest of the family extremely hot and 
uncomfortable, but which gave them extreme pleasure. Norman 
was obliged to spare Richard the answer, and said exactly what he 
ought, and so beautifully, that Meta could not find it in her heart to 
echo the fervent wish, which he whispered as he sat down, that 
speechifying could be abolished by act of parliament. 

Mrs. Arnott began to perceive that her nephew was something te 
be proud of, and to understand how much was sacrificed, while 
George Rivers expressed his opinion to her that Norman would be 
a crack speaker in the House, and he hoped she would say everything 
to hinder his going out, for it was a regular shame to waste him on 
the niggers. 

Owing to George having constituted himself her squire, Mrs. 
Arnott had not arrived at an understanding of the state of affairs at 
home ; but, as soon as they rose up from luncheon, and she learnt 
the truth from Richard and Mary, nothing would hinder her from 
walking home at once to see whether she could be useful. Mary was 
easily persuaded to remain, for she was accustomed to Margaret’s 
having these attacks, and had always been kept out of her room the 
while, so she had little uneasiness to prevent her from being very hap- 
py, in receiving in her own simple, good-humoured way, all the atten 
tions that lapsed upon her in the place of her elder sisters. 

‘ Cocksmoor really has a Church ! ’ was note enough of joy for 
her, and no one could look at her round face without seeing perfect 
happiness. Moreover, when after evening service, the November 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


287 


mists turned into decided rain, she was as happy as a queen in her 
foresight, which had provided what seemed an unlimited supply of 
cloaks and unbrellas. She appeared to have an original genius for 
making the right people give a lift in their carriages to the dis- 
tressed ; and, regarding the Abbotstoke britska as her own, packed 
in Mrs. Anderson and Fanny, in addition to all their own little 
one3, Meta thrusting Miss Bracy into the demi-corner destined for 
herself at the last minute, and, remaining with Mary, the only 
ladies obliged to walk back to Stoneborough. So delighted were 
they “ at the fun,” that it might have been thought the most charm 
ing of adventures, and they laughed all the more at the lack of um- 
brellas. They went to Mrs. Elwood’s, divested themselves of all 
possible finery, and tucked up the rest ; Meta was rolled up from 
head to foot in a great old plaid shawl of Mrs. Elwood’s, and Mary 
had a cloak of Richard’s, the one took Norman’s arm, the other Dr. 
Spencer’s, and they trudged home through the darkness and the 
mud in the highest glee, quite sorry when the carriage met them 
half-way. 

It was the last mirth that they enjoyed for many weeks. When 
they reached home, a sense of self-reproach for their glee thrilled 
over them, when they found a sort of hush pervading the drawing- 
room, and saw the faces of awe and consternation, worn by Blanche 
and George Rivers. 

‘ It was a much worse attack than usual, and it did not go off,’ 
was all that Blanche knew, but her father had desired to be told 
when Dr. Spencer came home, and she went up with the tidings. 

This brought Flora down, looking dreadfully pale, and with her 
voice sunk away as it had been when she lost her child. Her hus- 
band started up, exclaiming at her aspect ; she let him support her 
to the sofa, and gave the few particulars. Margaret had been as 
placid and comfortable as usual, till nurse came to dress her, but 
the first move had brought on the faintness and loss of breath. It 
did not yield to remedies, and she had neither looked nor spoken 
since, only moaned. Flora thought her father much alarmed ; and 
then, after an interval, she began to entreat that they might stay 
there, sending Miss Bracy and the children to the Grange to make 
room. 

Meantime, Dr. Spencer Had come to the sick-room, but he 
could only suggest remedies that were already in course of applica- 
tion to the insensible sufferer. Mrs. Arnott and Ethel were watch- 
ing, and trying everything to relieve her, but with little effect, and 
Ethel presently stood by the fire with her father, as Dr. Spencer 
turned towards him, and he said, in a very low, but calm voice, ‘ It 
won’t do — I believe it is the death stroke.’ 

1 Not immediate, ’ said Dr. Spencer. 

1 No,’ said Dr. May ; and he quietly spoke of what the disease had 
26 


288 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


effected, and wliat yet remained for it to do, ere the silver bowl 
should be broken. 

Dr. Spencer put in a word of agreement. 

‘ Will there be no rally ? ’ said Ethel, in the same tone. 

I Probably not,’ said Dr. May ; ‘ the brain is generally reached at 
this stage. I have seen it coming for a long time. The thing was 
done seven years ago. There was a rally for a time when youth was 
strong ; but suspense and sorrow accelerated what began from the 
injury to the spine.’ 

Dr. Spencer bowed his head, and looked at him anxiously, say- 
ing, ‘ I do not think there will be much acute suffering.’ 

I I fear it may be as trying,’ said Dr. May, sighing; and then 
turning to Ethel, and throwing his arm round her, ‘ May God make 
it easy to her, and grant us “ patient hearts.” We will not grudge 
her to all that she loves hest, my Ethel.’ 

Ethel clung to him, as if she derived strength from him. But 
the strength that was in them then, did not come from earth. Dr. 
Spencer wrung his hand, and stepped back to the bed to try an- 
other resource. Vain again, they only seemed to be tormenting her, 
and the silent helplessness prevailed again. Then Dr. May went down 
to Flora, told her the true state of the case, and urged on her to 
give up her plan of remaining. George joined with him, and she 
yielded submissively, but would not be refused going up once again 
and kissing her sister, standing beside her gazing at her, till her 
father came softly and drew her away. ‘ I shall be here to-morrow,’ 
she said to Ethel, and went. 

The morrow, however, brought no Flora. The agitation and 
distress of that day had broken her down completely, and she was so 
ill as to be unable to move. Her aunt went at once to see her, and 
finding that her presence at the Grange relieved some of Dr. May’s 
anxieties, chiefly devoted herself to her. Flora was grateful and 
gentle, but as silent and impenetrable as ever, while day after day she 
lay on her couch, uncomplaining and undemonstrative, visited by her 
father, and watched over by her aunt and sister-in-law, who began 
to know each other much better, though Flora less than ever, in 
that deep fixed grief. She only roused herself to return her 
husband’s affection, or to listen to the daily reports of Margaret. 
Poor George, he was very forlorn, though Meta did her best to 
wait on him, and he rodo over twice a day to inquire at Stone- 
borough. 

The Doctors were right, and the Consecration morning was her 
last of full consciousness. From the hour when she had heard the 
sound of Alan’s bells, her ears were closed to earthly sounds. 
There was very little power of intercourse with her, as she lingered 
«n the borders of the Land very far away, where skill and tender- 
ness could not either reach body or spirit. Often the watchers 
could not tell whether she was conscious, or only incapacitated 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


289 


from expression, by the fearful weight on her breath, which caused a 
restlessness most piteous in the exhausted helpless frame, wasted 
till the softest touch was anguish. Now and then came precious 
gleams when a familiar voice, or some momentary alleviation would 
gain a smile, or thanks, and they thought her less restless when 
Richard read prayers beside her, but words were very rare, only 
now and then a name, and when in most distress, “ it will be soon 
over,” “ it will soon be over,” occurred so often, that they began to 
think it once her solace, and now repeated habitually without a 
meaning. 

They could not follow her into the valley of the shadow of death, 
but could only watch the frail earthly prison-house being broken 
down, as if the doom of sin must be borne, though faith could trust 
that it was but her full share in the Cross. Calmly did those days 
pass. Ethel, Richard, and Mary divided between them the watch- 
ing and the household cares, and their father bore up bravely in the 
fullness of his love and faith, resigning his daughter to the Hands 
which were bearing her whither her joys had long since departed. 

Hector Ernescliffe arrived when the holidays began; and his 
agony of sorrow, when she failed to recognise him, moved Dr. May 
to exert himself earnestly for his consolation ; and, at the same time, 
Tom, in a gentle, almost humble manner, paid a sort of daughter-like 
attention to tkesmallcst services for his father, as if already accept- 
ing him as his especial charge. 

It was midnight, on the longest night of the year ; Ethel was 
lying on her bed, and had fallen into a brief slumber, when her 
father’s low, clear voice summoned her : ‘ Ethel, she is going ! ’ 

There was a change on the face, and the breath came in labour- 
ing gasps. Richard lifted her head, and her eyes once more opened ; 
she smiled once more. 

1 Papa ! ’ she said, 1 dear papa , * 

- He threw himself on his knees beside her, but she looked beyond 
him, ‘ Mamma ! Alan ! oh ! there they are ! More ! more ! ’ and, as 
though the unspeakable dawned on her, she gasped for utterance, 
then looked with a consoling smile, on her father. 4 Over now ! ’ 
she said — and the last struggle was ended. That which Richard 
laid down was no longer Margaret May. 

Over now ! The twenty-five years’ life, the seven years’ cap- 
tivity on her couch, the anxious headship of the motherless house- 
hold, the hopeless betrothal, the long suspense, the effort for resigna- 
tion, the widowed affections, the slow decay, the tardy, painful death 
agony — all was over ; nothing left, save what they had rendered the 
undying spirit, and the impress her example had left on those 
around her. 

The long continuance of the last suffering had softened the actual 
parting ; and it was with thankfulness for the cessation of her pain 
that they turned away, and bade each other good-night. 


290 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Ethel would not have believed that her first waking, to the know 
ledge that Margaret was gone, could have been more fraught -with 
relief than with misery. And, for her father, it seemed as if it were 
a home-like comfortable thought to him, that her mother had one of 
her children with her. He called her the first link of his Daisy 
Chain drawn up out of sight ; and, during the quiet days that en- 
sued, he seemed as it were to be lifted above grief, dwelling upon hope. 
His calmness impressed the same on his children, as they moved 
about in the solemn stillness of the house ; and when Harry, pale, 
and shocked at the blow to him so sudden, came home, the grave 
silence soothed his violence of grief ; and he sat beside his father or 
Mary, speaking in under-tones of what Margaret had loved to hear 
from him, of Alan Ernescliffe’s last moments. 

Mary gave way to a burst of weeping when she sought, in vain, 
for Daisies in the wintry garden ; but Hector Ernescliffe went 
down to the Cloisters, and brought back the lingering blossoms to 
be placed on Margaret’s bosom. 

The dog Toby had followed him, unseen, to the cloister; and he 
was entering the garden, when he was struck by seeing the animal 
bounding, in irrepressible ecstacy, round a lad, whose tarpaulin hat, 
blue bordered collar, and dark blue dress, shewed him to be a sailor, 
as well as the broad-shouldered, grizzled, elderly man, who stood 
beside him. 

‘ I say, sir,’ said the latter, as Hector’s hand was on the door, 
do you belong to Dr. May ? ’ 

Hector unhesitatingly answered that he did. 

‘ Then, may be, sir, you have heard of one Bill Jennings.’ 

Hector was all in one flush, almost choking, as he told that he 
was Mr. Ernescliffe’s brother, and gave his hand to the sailor. 
What could he do for him ? 1 

Jennings had heard from one of the crew of the Bucephalus 
that Mr. May had been met on his return to Portsmouth, by the 
news of his sister’s death. The Mays had helped his boy ; he had 
been with Mr. May in the island ; he had laid Mr. Ernescliffe in his 
grave ; and some notion had crossed the sailor that he must be at 
Miss Margaret’s funeral — it might be they would let him lend a 
hand — and, in this expedition, he was spending his time on shore. 

How he was welcomed need not be told, nor how the tears came 
forth from full hearts, as Dr. May granted his wish, and thanked 
him for doing what Margaret herself would indeed have chosen; 
and, in his blue sailor garb, was Jennings added to the bearers, 
their own men, and two Cocksmoor labourers, who, early on Christ- 
mas eve, carried her to the Minster. Last time she had been there, 
Alan Ernescliffe had supported her. Now, what was mortal of him 
lay beneath the palm tree, beneath the glowing summer sky, while 
the first snow flakes hung like pearls on her pall. But as they laid 
ber by her mother’s side, who could doubt that they wero together? 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


291 


CHAPTER XXVI 


At length I got unto the gladsome hill, 

Where lay my hope ; 

"Where lay my heart : and, climbing sti.l, 

"When I had gained the brow and top, 

A lake of brackish waters on the ground, 

"Was all I found.’ 

George Heebebt. 

Late in the evening of the same snowy 24th of December, a little 
daughter awoke to life at Abbotstoke Grange, and, not long after, 
Mrs. Arnott came to summon Dr. May from the anxious vigil in tho 
sitting room. 

‘ Come and see if you can do anything to soothe her,’ she said, 
with much alarm. ‘ The first sight of the baby has put her into 
such a state <5f agitation, that we do not know what to do with 
her.’ 

It was so, when he came to her bedside; that fixed stony look of 
despair was gone ; the source of tears, so long dried up, had opened 
again ; and there she lay, weeping quietly indeed, but profusely, 
and with deep heaving sobs. To speak, or to leave her alone, seemed 
equally perilous, but he chose the first— he kissed and blessed her, 
and gave her joy. She looked up at him as if his blessing once more 
brought peace, and said, faintly, ‘Now it is pardon — now I can 
die ! 7 

‘ The cloud is gone ! Thanks for that above all ! ’ said Dr. May, 
fervently. ‘ Now my dearj rest in thankful gladness — you are too 
weak to talk or think. ’ 

1 1 am weak — I am tired of it all,’ said Flora. ‘ I am glad to be 
going while I am so happy — there are Margaret — my own darling 
rest — peace — ’ 

‘ You are not going, dearest,’ said her father ; ‘at least I trust 
not, if you will not give way — here is a darling given to you, instead 
of the first, who needs you more.’ 

He would have taken the infant from the nurse and held her to 
her mother, but, recollecting how little Leonora had drawn her last 
breath in his arms,, he feared the association, and signed to Mrs. 
Arnott to show her the child ; but she seemed as yet only able to 
feel that it was not Leonora, and the long sealed-up grief would 
have its way. The tears burst out again. ‘ Tell Ethel she will be 
the best mother to her. Name her Margaret — make her a daisy of 
your owm — don’t call her after me,’ she said, with such passionate 
caresses that Mrs. Arnott was glad to take the baby away. 

Dr. May’s next expedient was to speak to her of her husband, 
who needed her more than all, and to call him in. There seemed to 
be -something tranquillizing in his wistful manner of repeating, ‘ DonH 


292 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


cry, Flora ; ’ and she was at last reduced, by her extreme exhaustion, 
to stillness ; but there were still many fears for her. 

Dr. May’s prediction was accomplished — that she would suffei 
for having over-exerted herself. Her constitution had been severely 
tried by the grief and despondency that she had so long endured in 
silence, and the fresh sorrow for her favorite sister, coming at such 
a crisis. There was a weariness of life, and an unwillingness to re- 
sume her ordinary routine, that made her almost welcome her weak- 
ness and sinking ; and now that the black terror had cleared away 
from the future, she seemed to long to follow Margaret at once, and 
to yearn after her lost child ; while appeals to the affection that sur- 
rounded her often seemed to oppress her, as if there were nothing 
but weariness and toil in store. 

The state of her mind made her father very anxious, though it 
was but too well accounted for. Poor Flora had voluntarily as- 
sumed the trammels that galled her ; worldly motives had prompted 
her marriage, and though she faithfully loved her husband, he was a 
heavy weight on her hands, and she had made it more onerous by 
thrusting him into a position for which he was not calculated, and 
inspiring him with a self-consequence that would not recede from it. 
The shock of her child’s death had taken away the zest and energy 
which had rejoiced in her chosen way of life, and opened her eyes 
to see what Master she had been serving ; and the perception of the 
hollowness of all that had been apparently good in her, had filled 
her with remorse and despair. Her sufferings had been the more 
bitter because she had not parted with her proud reserve. She 
had refused counsel, and denied her confidence to those who could 
have guided her repentance. Her natural good sense, and the 
sound principle in which she had been brought up, had taught her 
to distrust her gloomy feelings as possibly morbid ; and she had 
prayed, keeping her held of faith in the Infinite Mercy, though she 
could not feel her own part in it; and thus that faith was beginning 
at last to clear her path. 

It was the harder to deal with her, because her hysterical agitation 
was so easily excited, that her father hardly dared to let a word be 
spoken to her ; and she was allowed to see no one else except 
her aunt and the dear old nurse, whose tears for her child Margaret 
had been checked by the urgent requirements of another of her 
nurslings ; and whom George ltivers would have paid with her 
weight in gold, for taking cafe of his new daughter, regarding her 
as the only woman in the world that could be trusted. 

Those were heavy days with everyone, though each brought 
some shade of improvement. They were harder to bear than the 
peaceful days that had immediately followed the loss of Margaret : 
and Ethel was especially unhappy and forlorn under the new anxiety, 
where she could be of no service ; and with her precious occupation 
gone ; her father absent, instead of resting upon her ; and her room 


THE DAISY CIIAHST. 


293 


deserted. She was grieved with herself, because her feelings were 
unable to soar at the Christmas feast, as erst on St. Andrew’s day; 
and she was bewildered and distressed by the fear that she had then 
been only uplifted by vanity and elation. 

She told Richard so, and he said, kindly, that he thought a good 
deal of what she complained of arose from bodily weariness. 

This hurt her a little ; but when he said, 1 1 think that the bless- 
ings of St. Andrew’s day helped us through what was to follow,’ 
she owned that it had indeed been so, and added, ‘ I am going to 
work again ! Tell me what will be most useful to you at Cocks- 
moor.’ 

Sick at heart as she was, she bravely set herself to appropriate 
the hours now left vacant ; and manfully walked with Richard and 
Harry to Church at Cocksmoor, on St. Stephen’s day; but the 
Church brought back the sense of contrast. Next, she insisted on 
fulfilling their intention of coming home by Abbotstoke to hear how 
Flora was, when the unfavorable account only added lead to the 
burthen that weighed her down. Though they were sent home in 
the carriage, she was so completely spent, that the effect of return- 
ing home to her room, without its dear inhabitant, was quite over- 
whelming. and she sat on her bed for half-an-hour, struggling with 
repinings. She came down-stairs without having gained the victory, 
and was so physically overcome with lassitude, that Richard insisted 
on her lying on the sofa, and leaving everything to him and 
Mary. 

Richard seemed to make her his object in life, and was an 
unspeakable help and comforter to her, not only by taking every 
care for her for her sake, but by turning to her as his own friend 
and confidante, the best able to replace what they had lost. There 
were many plans to be put in operation for Cocksmoor, on which 
much consultation was needed, though every word reminded them 
sadly of Margaret’s ever ready interest in those schemes. It was 
very unlike Ethel’s vision of the first weeks of St. Andrew’s Church ; 
but it might be safer for her than that aught should tempt her to 
say, 1 See what my perseverance has wrought : ’ Perhaps her Mar- 
garet had begun to admire her too much to be her safest confidante — 
at any rate, it was good still to sow in tears, rather than on earth 
to reap in confident joy. 

Norman was as brotherly and kind as possible ; but it was one 
of the dreary feelings of those days, that Ethel then first became 
aware of the difference that his engagement had made, and saw that 
he resorted elsewhere for sympathy. She was not jealous, and ac- 
quiesced submissively and resolutely ; but they had been so much 
to each other, that it was a trial, especially at such a time as this, 
when freshly deprived of Margaret. 

Norman’s own prospect was not cheerful. He had received a 
letter from New Zealand, begging him to hasten his coming out, a? 


294 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


there was educational work muck wanting him, and, according to 
his original wish, he could be ordained there in the autumnal Em- 
ber week. 

He was in much perplexity, since, according to this request, he 
ought to sail with his aunt in the last week of February, and he 
knew not how to reconcile the conflicting claims. 

Meta was not long in finding out the whole of his trouble, as 
they paced up and down the terrace together, on a frosty afternoon, 

1 You will go ! ’ was her first exclamation. 

‘ I ought,’ said Norman, 1 1 believe I ought, and if it had only 
been any other time, it would have been easy. My aunt’s com- 
pany would have been such a comfort for you.’ 

1 It cannot be helped,’ said Meta. 

‘ Considering the circumstances,’ began Norman, with lingering 
looks at the little humming-bird on his arm, ‘ I believe I should be 
justified in waiting till such time as you could go with me. I 
could see what Mr. Wilmot thinks.’ 

‘ You don’t think so yourself,’ said Meta. * Nobody else can 
give a judgment. In a thing like this ; asking is, what you once 
called, seeking opinions as Balaam enquired.’ 

‘ Turning my words against me ? ’ said Norman, smiling. 1 Still, 
Meta, perhaps older heads would be fitter to judge what would be 
right for a little person not far off.’ 

‘ She can be the best judge of that herself,’ said Meta. ‘ Nor- 
man,’ and her dark eyes were steadfastly fixed, ‘ I always resolved 
that, with God’s help, I would not be a stumbling-block in the way 
of your call to your work. I will not. Go out now — perhaps you 
will be freer for it without me, and I suppose I have a longer 
apprenticeship to serve to all sorts of things, before I come to help 
you.’ 

1 Oh ! Meta, you are a rebuke to me ! ’ 

‘ What ? when I am going to stay by my own fireside ? ’ said 
Meta, trying to laugh, but not very successfully. ‘ Seriously, I 
have much to do here. When poor Flora gets* well, she must be 
spared all exertion for a long time to come ; and I flatter myself 
that they want me at Stoneborough sometimes. If your father can 
bear to spare you, there is no doubt that you ought to go.’ 

1 My father is as unselfish as you are, Meta — But I cannot 
speak to him until he is more easy about Flora. We always think 
the required sacrifice the hardest, but I must own that I could not 
grieve if he laid his commands on me to wait till the autumn ’ 

1 Oh ! that would make it a duty and all easy,’ said Meta, 
smiling ; 1 but I don’t think he will, and aunt Flora will be only 
too glad- to carry you out without encumbrance.’ 

‘ Has not aunt Flora come to her senses about you ? ’ 

‘ I believe she would rather I belonged to any of her nephews 
but you. She is such a dear, sincere, kindheartcd person, and wc 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 




arc so comfortable together, that it will be quite like home to come 
out to her ! I mean there . to convince her that I can be of some- 
thing like use.’ 

Meta talked so as to brighten and invigorate Norman when 
they were together, but they both grew low-spirited when apart. 
The humming-bird had hardly ever been so downcast as at 
present — that is, whenever she was not engaged in waiting on her 
brother, or in cheering up Dr. May, or in any of the many gentle 
offices that she was ever fulfilling. She was greatly disappointed, 
and full of fears for Norman, and dread of the separation, but she 
would not give way ; and only now and then, when off her guard, 
would the sadness reign on her face without an effort. Alone, she 
fought and prayed for resignation for herself, and protection and 
strength for him, and chid herself for the foolish feeling that he 
would be safer with her. 

She told aunt Flora how it was one evening, as they sat over 
the fire together, speaking with a would-be-tone of congratulation. 

1 Indeed ! ’ exclaimed Mrs. Arnott. * But that is a great pity ! ’ 

Meta looked quite brightened by her saying so — ‘ I thought 

you would be glad,’ she rejoined. 

I Did you think me so hard-hearted ? ’ 

I I thought you believed he would be better without ine. J 

‘ My dear, we have not kept house and nursed together for a 
month for nothing,’ said Mrs. Arnott, smiling. 

‘ Thank you,’ said Meta, trying to answer the smile. 1 You 
have taken a load off me ! ’ 

1 1 don’t like it at all,’ said Mrs. Arnott. 1 It- is a very uncom- 
fortable plan for everyone — And yet when I know how great is 
the want of him out there, I can say nothing against it without 
high treason. Well, my dear, I’ll take all the care I can of 
Norman, and when you come — I shall be almost as glad as if we 
were coming horn* for good. Poor Flora, she is one person who 
will not regret the arrangement.’ 

‘ Poor Flora — you think her really better this evening.’ 

1 Much better, indeed — if we could only raise her spirits, I think 
she would recover very well, but she is so sadly depressed. I must 
try to talk to Ethel — she may better understand her.’ 

‘ I have never understood Flora,’ said Meta. 4 She has been as 
kind to me as possible, and I very soon came to a certain point with 
her, but I never have known her thoroughly. I doubt whether 
anyone did but dear Margaret.’ 

Flora was, however, much softened and less reserved than she 
had been. She found great repose in her aunt’s attendance, retra- 
cing, as it did her mother’s presence, and she responded ‘to her 
tenderness with increasing reliance and comfort; while as her 
strength began to revive, and there was more disposition to talk, 
she became gradually drawn into greater confidence. 


296 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


The seeing of Ethel was one of the difficult questions. Flora 
had begun to wish it very much, and yet the bare idea threw her 
into a nervous tremor, that caused it to be put off again and again. 
Her aunt found her one day almost faint with agitation — she had 
heard Ethel’s voice in the next room, and had been winding up her 
expectations, and now was as much grieved as relieved, to find that 
she had been there seeing the baby, but was now gone. 

‘ How does the dear Ethel look ? 5 asked Flora, presently. 

‘ She is looking better to-day; she has looked very worn and 
harassed, but I thought her brighter to-day. She walked over by 
Aubrey on his pony, and I think it did her good.’ 

‘ Dear old Ethel ! Aunt, it is a thing that no one has told me 
yet. Can you tell me how she bore the news of Norman Ogilvie’s 
engagement ? ’ 

‘ Do you mean — ’ and Mrs. Arnott stopped short in her inter- 
rogation. 

‘ Yes,’ said Flora, answering the pause. 

‘ But I thought young Ogilvie a most unexceptionable person.’ 

‘ So he is,’ said Flora. ‘ I was much annoyed at the time, but 
she was resolute.’ 

‘ In rejecting him ? ’ 

‘ In running away as soon as she found what was likely to 
happen ; ’ and Flora, in a few words, told what had passed at Oxford. 

‘ Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father.’ 

‘ Entirely,’ said Flora. ‘ No one could look at her without 
seeing that she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective 
one at home, and she sacrificed herself.’ 

‘ I am glad that I have seen her,’ said Mrs. Arnott. 1 1 should 
never have understood her by description. I always said that I 
must come home to set my correspondence going rightly.’ 

‘Aunt Flora,’ said her niece, ‘do you remember my dear 
mother’s unfinished letter to you ? ’ 

‘ To be sure I do, my dear.’ 

‘Nothing ever was more true,’ said Flora. ‘I read it over 
some little time ago, when I set my papers in order, and understood 
it then. I never did before. I used to think it very good for the 
others.’ 

‘ It is what one generally does with good advice.’ 

‘ Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and 
me ? It is so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved 
praise, but now dreads nothing so much ; Ethel, who never cared 
for anything of the kind, but went straight on her own brave way ; 
and, oh ! aunt Flora — me — ’ 

‘ Indeed, my dear, I should have thought you had her most full 
approbation.’ 

1 Ah ! don’t you see the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, 
as if she only could not see surface faults in me,’ said Flora ; ‘ and 


THE DAISY . CHAIN. 


297 


how she said she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. . 
I wonder how it would have been if she had lived. 1 have looked 
back so often in the past year, and I think the hollowness began 
from that time. It might have been there before, but I am not so 
sure. You see, at that dreadful time, after the accident, I was the 
eldest who was able to be efficient, and much more useful than poor 
Ethel. I think the credit I gained made me think myself per- 
fection, and I never did anything afterwards but seek my own 
honour.’ 

Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora’s continued 
depression, but she thought her self-reproach exaggerated, and said 
something at once soothing and calculated to encourage her to 
undraw the curtain of reserve. 

‘You do not know,’ continued Flora, ‘how greedy I was of 
credit and affection. It -made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long 
as we were in the same sphere ; and when I felt that she was more 
to papa than I could be, I looked beyond home for praise. I don’t 
think the things I did were bad in themselves — brought up as I 
have been, they could hardly be so. I knew what merits praise 
and blame too well for that — but oh ! the motive. I do believe I 
cared very much for Cocksmoor. I thought it would be a grand 
thing to bring about, but, you see, as it has turned out, all I thought 
I had done for it was in vain ; and Ethel has been the real person 
and does not know it. I used to think Ethel so inferior to me. I 
left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she 
might have been happy with Norman Ogilvie — for never were two 
people better matched, and now she has done what I never thought 
to have left to another — watched over our own Margaret. Oh ! 
how shall I ever bear to see her ? 

‘ My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than 
Ethel. She does not think these things.’ 

‘ She does,’ said Flora. ‘ She always knew me better than I 
did myself. Her straightforward words should often have been 
rebukes to me. I shall see in every look and tone the opinion I 
have deserved. I have shrunk from her steadfast looks ever since 
I myself learnt what I was. I could not bear them now — and 
yet — oh! aunt! you must bring her. Ethel! my dear, dear old 
King — my darling s godmother — the last who was with Margaret ! ’ 

She had fallen into one of those fits of weeping when it was 
impossible to attempt anything but soothing her ; but, though she 
was so muen exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great 
disgrace with Dr May for having let her talk herself into this 
condition, she found that he was satisfied to "find that she had so 
far relieved her mind, and declared that she would be better now. 

The effect of the conversation was, that the next day, the last 
of the twelve Christmas days, when Ethel, whose yearning after 
her sister was almost equally divided between dread and eager- 


298 


TIIE DAISY' CHAIN 


mess — eagerness for her embrace, and dread of the chill of her 
reserve, came once again in hopes of an interview. Dr. May called 
her at once — ‘ I shall take you in without any preparation,’ he said, 
‘ that she may not have time to be flurried. Only, be quiet and 
natural.’ 

Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he 
seemed to think it so easy to be natural ? 

She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard 
his cheerful tones saying,’ 1 1 have brought Ethel to you ! ’ 

‘Ethel ! oh ! ’ said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of 
expecting a treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began, 
in the dimness, to see something white moving, and her hands were 
clasped by two long thin ones. 1 There ! ’ said Dr. May, ‘ now, if 
you will be good, I will leave you alone. Nurse is by, to look after 
you, and you know she always separates naughty children.’ 

Either the recurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly 
touch after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary 
mutual dread, and, as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Flora’s arms 
were round her, the only feeling was of being together again, and 
both at once made the childish gesture of affection, and murmured 
the old pet names of ‘Flossy,’ and ‘King,’ that belonged to almost 
forgotten days, when they were baby sisters, then kissed each other 
again. 

‘ I can’t see you,’ said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. ‘ Why, 
Flora, you look like a little white shadow ! ’ 

‘ I have had such weak eyes,’ said Flora, ‘ and this dim light is 
comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain.’ 

‘ But what can you do here ? ’ 

‘ Do ? Oh ! dear Ethel, I have not had much of doing. Papa 
says I hav3 three years rest to make up.’ 

‘ Poor Flora ! ’ said Ethel, ‘ but I should have thought it tire- 
some, especially for you.’ 

‘ I have only now been able to think again,’ said Flora ; 1 and 
you will say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember 
some lines in that drama that Norman admired so much ?•’ 

‘ Philip von Artevelde ? ’ 

‘Yes. I can’t recollect them noio , though they used to be al- 
ways running in my head — something about time to mend and time 
SO mourn.’ 

‘ These ? ’ said Ethel 

‘ He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. 

Eternity njpums that.’ 

5 1 never had time before for either,’ said Flora. ‘ You cannot 
think how I used to be haunted by those, when I was cliasod from 
one thing to another, all these long, long eighteen months. I am 
in no haste to take up work again.’ 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


299 


‘ Mending as well as mourning,’ said Ethel, thoughtfully. 

Flora sighed. 

1 And now you have that dear little Christmas gift to — -’ Ethel 
paused. 

1 She is pot nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was,’ said 
Flora, ‘ poor little dear. You know, Ethel, even now, I shall have 
very little time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me 
so much, and I must leave her to — to the nurses.’ Flora’s voice 
trembled again. 

1 Our own dear old nurse,’ said Ethel. 

. ‘ Oh ! I wanted to thank you all for sparing her to us,’ said 
Flora. ‘ George wished it so much. But how does poor little 
Daisy bear it ? ’ 

‘ Yery magnanimously,’ said Ethel, smiling. ‘In fact, nurse 
has had but little to do with Daisy of late, and would have been 
very forlorn at home. It is better for Aubrey and for her, not to 
return to be babies to comfort poor nurse. I have been breaking 
up the nursery, and taking Gertrude to live with me.’ 

‘ Have you gone back there again ? ’ 

1 It would not have been better for waiting,’ said ’Ethel ; ‘ and 
Gertrude was so proud to come to me. I could not have done it 
without her, but papa must not have vacancy next to him.’ 

‘ It has been hard on you for me to engross him,’ said Flora , 
‘ but, oh, Ethel, I could not spare him. I don’t think even you can 
tell what papa is.’ 

‘ You have found it out,’ said Ethel, in an odd, dry manner , 
which, in sound, though not in feeling, was a contrast to the soft, 
whispering, tearful murmurs of her sister. 

‘ And my aunt ! ’ continued Flora — ‘ that I should have taken 
up such a great piece of her short visit ! ’ 

1 Ah ! it is coming to an end very fast,’ said Ethel, sighing ; 
‘ but you had the best right to her, and she and Meta have seen so 
much of each other. She tells me she is quite satisfied about Meta 
now.’ 

‘ I am sorry to see Meta looking out of spirits,’ said Flora. ‘ I 
almost made her cry by sajing something about Norman. Is there 
anything going wrong ? ’ 

Ethel, as usual, blundered into the subject. ‘ Only about Nor- 
man’s going out.’ 

Flora asked further questions, and she was obliged to explain. 
It roused Flora’s energies at once. 

‘ This will never do ! ’ she said. ‘ They must marry, and go 
with my aunt.’ 

Ethel was aghast. ‘ They would not hear of it now ! ’ 

‘ They must. It is the only reasonable thing. Why, Norman 
would be miserable, and, as to Meta — Imagine his going out and 


300 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


returning — a year’s work, such an expense and loss of time, besides 
the missing aunt Flora.’ 

1 If it were not wrong — ’ 

‘ The waste would be the wrong thing. Besides — ’ and she told 
of Margaret’s wishes. 

1 But, Flora, think — the last week in February — and you so 
ill!’ 

( I am not to marry them,’ said Flora, smiling. 1 If it could be 
in a fortnight, they could go and get their outfit afterwards, and 
come back to us when I am stronger. Let me see — there need be 
no fuss about settlements — Mr. Rivers’s will arranges everything 
for her.’ 

‘ It would be a good thing to get rid of a fine wedding,’ said 
Ethel ; * but they will never consent ! ’ 

1 Yes they will, and be grateful.’ 

1 Papa would be happier about Norman,’ said Ethel ; 1 but I 
cannot fancy his liking it. And you — you can’t spare Meta, for 
aunt Flora must go to the Arnott’s in a week or two more.’ 

1 Suppose papa was to let me have you,’ said Flora. 1 If he 
wants you, he* must come after you.’ 

Ethel gasped at the thought that her occupation at home was 
gone, but she said — ‘ If I am not too awkward for you, -dear Flora. 
You will miss Meta terribly.’ . 

‘ I can’t keep the humming-bird caged, with her heart far away,’ 
said Flora. 

Dr. May came in to break up the conversation, and Ethel quick- 
ly guessed from his manner that Norman had been talking to him. 
Flora told him that she had been agreeing with Ethel that Meta 
had much better not miss this opportunity. He was far less startled 
than Ethel lu?,d expected ; indeed, the proposal was rather a relief 
to his mind, and his chief objection was the fear that Flora would 
be fatigued by the extra bustle, but she promised not to trouble 
herself about it, otherwise than that if Norman could not persuade 
Meta, she would. The sisters parted, much more comfortable than 
before. Ethel fi.lt as if she had found something like a dim reflec- 
tion of Margaret, and Flora’s fear of Ethel had fled away from the 
mere force of sisterhood. 

As to Norman, he declared that he had not the audacity to 
make the proposal to Meta, though he was only too grateful — so 
iiis father carried it to the humming-bird ; and, as soon as she found 
that it was not improper, nor would hurt anyone’s feelings, she gave 
ready consent — only begging that it might be as best suited every- 
one, especially Flora ; and ending by a whisper to her dear fatherly 
friend, owning that she was ; very glad — she meant she was very 
glad there would be nobody there.’ 

So Norman and Meta settled their plans as they walked home 
together from evening service, after listening to the prophecies of 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


301 


the blessings to be spread into the waste and desolate places, which 
should yet become the heritage of the Chosen, and with the evening 
star shining on them, like a faint reflex of the Star of the East, 
Who came to be a Light to lighten the Gentiles. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


•Euna della facolta singolari ed incommnnicabili della religion© Cristiana ques ta, di poter 
dare indirizzo e quiete a cliiunoque, in qualsivoglia eongiuntura, a qualsivoglia termino, 
ricorra ad essa. Se al passato v’6 rimedio, essa lo prescrive, lo somministra, presta lumo e 
vigor© per metterlo in opera a qualunque costo ; sr non v’d, essa da il, modo di fare realmento 
e in eifeto, cid die 1’ uom dice in proverbio, della necessKa virtu. Iusegna a continuare con 
sapienza cio che 6 stato intrapreso per leggerezza, piega l’animo ad abbracciare con propensione 
cio che 6 stato imposto dalla prepotenza, e da ad nn elezione che fu temeraria, ma che e irre- 
vocable, tutta la santiti, tutto il consiglio, diciamolo pur francamenta, tutte le gioje della 
vocazione.’ 

Manzoni. 

Tiie wedding day was fixed for the 20th of January, since it was 
less risk to Flora as an absolute invalid, than as convalescent enough 
to take any share in the doings. 

Meta managed her correspondence with her own relatives, and 
obtained her uncle’s kind approval, since he saw there could be 
nothing else ; while her aunt treated her as an infatuated victim, 
but wished, for her mother’s sake, to meet her in London- before she 
sailed. 

The worst stroke of all was to Bellairs, who had never chosen 
to believe that her mistress could move without her, and though 
mortally afraid in crossing to the Isle of Wight, and utterly abhor- 
ring all “ natives,” went into hysterics on finding that her young 
lady would take out no maid but a little hardworking village girl ; 
and though transferred in the most flattering manner to Mrs. Riv- 
ers’s service, shed a tear for everys titch she set in the trousseau, 
and assured her betrothed butler, that, if Miss Rivers would only 
have heard reason, she would have followed her to the world’s end, 
rather than that her beautiful hair should never look like anything 
again. 

So the wedding-day came, and grass and trees wore a fitting suit 
of crisp hoariness. Nothing could be quieter. Meta was arrayed 
by the sobbing Bellairs in her simple bridal white, wrapped herself 
in a large shawl, took her brother’s arm, and walked down the 
frosty path with him and Mrs. Arnott, as if going merely to the 
daily service. 

The time had not been made known, and there was hardly an 
addition to the ordinary congregation, except the May family and 
Dr. Spencer ; but the Christmas evergreens still adorned aisle and 
chancel, and over the Altar stood the motto that Meta herself had 


S02 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


woven of holly, on that Christmas eve of grief and anxiety, without 
knowing how it would speak to her. 

‘ Fear not, for beliold I bring unto you glad tidings of great joy, that shall be 
unto you and to all people.’ 

Fear not, for length of voyage, for distance from kindred, for 
hardship, privation, misunderstanding, disappointment. The glad 
tidings are to all people, even to the utmost parts of the earth. Ye 
have your portion in the great joy — ye have freely cast in your lot 
with those, whose feet are beautiful on the mountains, who bear 
the good tidings. Fear not, for He is w r ith you, who will never 
forsake. 

Thus Dr. May read the words with swelling heart, as he looked 
at his son’s clear, grave, manful look, even as it had been when 
he made his Confirmation vow — his natural nervous excitability 
quelled by a spirit not his own, and chastened into strong purpose ; 
and the bride, her young face the more lovely for the depth of en- 
thusiasm restrained by awe and humility, as she stood without 
trembling or faltering, the strength of innocence expressed in the 
whole bearing of her slight figure in her white drapery. Around 
were the four sisterly bridesmaids, their black dresses showing 
that these were still the twilight days of mourning, and that none 
would forget her, whose prayers might still bless their labour of 
love. 

When Margaret Agatha May, on her husband’s arm turned for 
a last look at the Altar of her own Church, “ Fear not,” in ever- 
green letters, was the greeting she bore away. 

Ethel was left at the G-range for the ensuing fortnight — a time 
of unusual leisure both to her and to Flora, which they both prized 
highly, for it taught them to know each other as they had never 
done before. Flora’s confidence to her aunt had been a good thing 
for her, though so partial ; it opened the way for further unreserve 
to one who knew the circumstances better, and, as to dread of 
Ethel, that could seldom prevail in her presence, partly from long 
habit, partly from her deficiency of manner, and still more from 
her true humility and affection. Gradually she arrived at the per- 
ception of the history of her sister’s mind ; understood what gloom 
had once overshadowed it ; and how, since light had once shone 
upon her, she shrank not merely from the tasks that had become 
wearisome to her, but from the dread of losing among them her 
present peace. 

‘ They are your duty,’ argued Ethel. ‘ Duty brings peace.’ 

1 They were not,’ said Flora. 

c They are now,’ said Ethel. 

‘ Dinners and parties, empty talk and vain show,’ said Flora, 
languidly. ‘ Are you come to their defence, Ethel ? If you could 
guess how sick one gets of them, and how much worse it is for 


THE DAISY CHAIN". 


303 


them not to be hateful ! And to think of bringing my poor little 
girl up to the like, if she is spared ! ’ 

‘ If they are not duties, I would not do them,’ said Ethel. 

‘ Ethel,’ cried her sister, raising herself from her couch, eagerly, 

* I will say it to you ! What should you think of George resigning 
his seat, and living in peace here ? ’ 

‘ Would he ? ’ said Ethel. * 

1 If I wished it.’ 

‘ But what would he do with himself ? ’ said Ethel, not in too 
complimentary a strain. 

‘ Yachting, farming, Cochin-chinese — or something,’ said .Flora. 

1 Anything not so wearing as this ! ’ 

‘ That abominable candidate of Tomkin’s would come in ! ’ ex- 
claimed Ethel. ‘ Oh ! Flora, that would be horrid ! ’ 

{ That might be guarded against,’ said Flora. ‘ Perhaps Sir 
Henry — but, oh, let us leave politics in peace while we can. I 
thought we should do some great good, but it is all a maze of con- 
fusion. It is so hard to know principles from parties, and every- 
thing goes wrong ! It is of no use to contend with it ! ’ 

1 It is never vain to contend with evil,’ said Ethel. 

1 We are not generalizing,’ said Flora. ‘ There is evil nearer 
home than the state of parties, and I can’t see that George’s being 
in Parliament — being what he is — is anything like the benefit to 
things in general — that it is temptation and plague to me, besides 
the risk of London life for the baby, now and hereafter.’ 

‘ I can’t say that I think it is,’ said Ethel. ‘ How nice it 
would be to have you here ! I am so glad you are willing to give 
it up.’ 

‘ It would have been better to have given it up untasted — like 
Norman,’ sighed Flora. ‘ I will talk to George.’ 

‘ But, Flora,’ said Ethel, a little startled. ‘ You ought not to 
do such a thing without advice.’ 

‘ There will be worry enough before it is done ! ’ sighed Flora. 

‘ No fear of that . J 

‘ Stop a minute,’ said Ethel, as if poor Flora could have done 
anything but lie still on her sofa. ‘ I think you ought to consider 
well before you set it going.’ 

Have not I longed for it day and night ? It is an escape from 
peril for ourselves and our child.’ 

‘ I can’t be sure ! ’ said Ethel. 1 It may be more wrong to 
make George desert the post which — ’ 

‘ Which I thrust him into,’ said Flora. 1 My father told me as 
much.’ 

‘ I did not mean you to say that ! But it is a puzzle. It seems 
as if it were right to give up such things ; yet, when I recollect 
the difficulty of carrying an election right at Stoneborough., I 
think papa would be very sorry. I don’t think his interest 


304 


TIIE DAISY CHAIN-. 


would bring in any sound man but his son-in-law , and Georgs 
himself seems to like his parliamentary life better than anything 
else.’ 

1 Yes,’ said Flora, hesitatingly; for she knew it was true — he 
liked to think himself important, and it gave him something to 
think of, and regular occupation — not too active or onerous ; but 
she could not tell Ethel what she herself felt ; that all she could 
do for him could not prevent him from being held cheap by the men 
among whom she had placed him. 

‘ Then,’ said Ethel, as she heard her affirmative, ‘ I don’t think 
it for his- dignity, for you to put him into parliament to please you. 
and then take him out to please you.’ 

I I’ll take care of his dignity,’ said Flora, shortly. 

I I know you would do it well — ’ 

1 1 am sick of doing things well ! ’ said poor Flora. 1 You little 
know how I dread reading up all I must read presently ! I shall 
lose all I have scarcely gained. I cannot find ' peace any way, but 
by throwing down the load I gave my peace for.’ 

1 Whether this is truth or fancy,’ said Ethel, thoughtfully. 1 If 
you would ask some one competent.’ 

1 Don’t you know there are some things one cannot ask,’ said 
Flora. 1 1 don’t know why I spoke to you ! Ah ! come in ! Why, 
George, that is a finer egg than ever,’ as he entered with a Shanghac 
egg in each hand, for her to mark with the date when it had been 
laid. Poultry was a new hobby, and Ethel had been hearing, in her 
tete a, tete dinners with George, a great deal about the perfections 
of the hideous monsters that had obtained fabulous prices. They 
had been the best resource for conversation ; but she watched, with 
something between vexation and softness, how Flora roused herself 
to give her full attention and interest to his prosing about his pets, 
really pleased as it seemed ; and, at last, encouraging him actually 
to fetch his favourite cock to shew her ; when she went through the 
points of perfection of the ungainly mass of feathers, and did not at 
all allow Ethel to laugh at the unearthly sounds of disapproval 
which handling elicited. 

‘ And this is our senator ! ’ thought Ethel. 1 1 wonder whether 
Honorius’s hen was a Shanghae ! Poor Flora is right — it is poor 
work to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear ! but, putting him into 
the place is one thing, taking him out another. I wish she would 
take advice ; but I never knew her do that, except as a civil way of 
communicating her intentions. However, she is not quite what she 
was ! Poor dear ! Aunt Flora will never believe what a beautiful 
creature she used to be ! It seems wrong to think of her going 
back to that horrid London ; but I can’t judge. For my part, I’d 
rather do work, than no work for George, and he is a good, kind- 
hearted fellow after all ! I won’t be a crab ! ’ 

So Ethel did her best, and said the cock had a bright eye-all 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


305 


she could say for him — and George instructed her to admire the 
awkward legs, and invited her to a poultry show, at Whitford, in 
two days’ time — and they sent him away to continue his consulta- 
tions with the poultry woman, which pullets should be preferred as 
candidates for a prize. 

‘ Meta set him upon this,’ said Flora. £ I hope you will go, 
Ethel. You see he can be very happy here.’ 

I Still,’ said Ethel, ‘ the more I think, the more sure I am that 
you ought to ask advice.’ 

I I have asked yours,’ said Flora, as if it were a great effort. 
1 You don’t know what to say — I shall do what I see to be the only 
way to rest.’ 

1 1 do know what to say,’ said Ethel ; ‘ and that is, do as the 
Prayer-book tells you, in any perplexity.’ 

‘ I am not perplexed,’ said Flora. 

1 Don’t say so. This is either the station to which God has 
called you, or it is not.’ 

1 He never called me to it.’ 

1 But you don’t know whether you ought to leave it. If 
you ought not, you would be ten times more miserable. Go to 
Bichard, Flora — he belongs to you as much as I — he has authority 
besides.’ 

1 Bichard ! ’ 

1 He is the clearest of us all in practical matters,’ said Ethel, 
preventing what she feared would be disparaging. • ‘ I don’t mean 
only that you should ask him about this parliament matter alone ; 
but I am sure you would be happier and more settled, if you talked 
things over with him before — -before you go to Church.’ 

‘ You don’t know what you propose.’ 

* I do,’ said Ethel, growing bolder. 1 You have been going all 
this time by feeling. You have never cleared up, and got to the 
bottom of, your troubles.’ 

1 I could not talk to anyone.’ 

‘Not to anyone but a Clergyman. Now, to enter on such a 
thing is most averse to your nature ; and I- do believe that, for that 
very reason, it would be what would do you most good. You say 
you have recovered sense of — Oh ! Flora, I can’t talk of what you 
have gone through; but if you have only a vague feeling that 
seems as if lying still would be the only way to keep it, I don’t 
think it can be altogether sound, or the “ quiet conscience ” that is 
meant.’ 

‘ Oh ! Ethel ! Ethel ! I have never cold you what I have un- 
dergone, since I knew my former quietness of conscience was but 
sleep ! I have gone on in agony, with the sense of hypocrisy and 
despair, because I was afraid, for George’s sake, to do otherwise.’ 

Ethel felt herself utterly powerless to advise ; and, after a kind 


300 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


sound of sympathy, sat shocked, pondering on what none could 
answer; whether this were, indeed, what poor Flora imagined, or 
whether it had been a holding-fast to the thread through the dark- 
ness. The proud reserve was the true evil, and Ethel prayed and 
trusted it might give way. 

She went very amiably to Whitford with George, and gained 
great credit with him, for admiring the prettiest speckled Hamburgh 
present ; indeed, George was becoming very fond of “ poor Ethel,” 
as he still called her, and sometimes predicted that she would turn 
out a fine figure ot a woman after all. 

Ethel heard, on her return, that Richard had been there and 
three days after, wnen Flora was making arrangements for going to 
Church, a moment of confidence came over her, and she said, 1 1 did 
it, Ethel ! I have spoken to Richard.’ 

1 1 am so glad ! ’ 

1 You were right. Fie is as clear as he is kind,’ said Flora; 1 he 
shewed me that, for George’s sake, I must bear with my present 
life, and do the best I can with it, unless some leading comes for an 
escape ; and that the glare and weariness, and being spoken well of, 
must be taken as punishment for having sought after these things.’ 

‘I was afraid he would say so,’ said Ethel. ‘ But you will find 
happiness again, Flora dear.* 

‘ Scarcely — before I come to Margaret and to my child,"’ sighed 
Flora. ‘ I suppose it was Mercy that would not let me follow when 
I wished it. I must work till the time of rest comes ! ’ 

1 And your own little Margaret will cheer you ! ’ said Ethel, 
more hopefully, as she saw Flora bend over her baby, with a face 
that might one day be bright. 

She trusted that patient continuance in well-doing would one 
day win peace and joy, even in the dreary weird that poor Flora had 
chosen. 

For her own part, Ethel found Flora’s practical good sense and 
sympathy very useful, in her present need of the counsel she had 
always had from Margaret. 

The visit to Flora lasted a fortnight, and Ethel was much bene- 
fited by the leisure for reading and the repose after the long nurs- 
ing ; though, before the end, her refreshed energies began to pine 
for Daisy and her hymns, for Aubrey and his Virgil, for Cherry and 
her scholars, and above all, for her father ; for, come as often as he 
would, it was not papa at home. 

On the other hand, Mary was at a loss for Ethel every hour ; 
Richard was putting off his affairs till Ethel should come home ; 
Miss Bracy and Blanche longed for her to relieve the school-room 
from the children ; Aubrey could not perform a lesson in comfort 
with any one else — never ended a sum without groaning for Ethel, 
and sometimes rode to Abbotstoke for the mere purpose of appeal- 


THE DAISY CHAIN-. 307 

ing to lier ; in short, no one could get on without her, and the 
Doctor least of all. 

Dr. Spencer, and Mr. Wilmot, and all his sons and daughters, 
had done their best for him; but, in spite of his satisfaction at seeing 
the two sisters so happy together, he could not help missing Ethel 
every minute, as the very light of his home ; and when, at last, 
Flora brought her back, she was received with uproarious joy by 
Aubrey and Daisy, while the rest of the household felt a revival and 
refreshment of spirits — the first drawing aside of the cloud that had 
hung over the winter. The pearl of their home might be missed 
every hour, but they could thankfully rest in the trust that she was 
a jewel stored up in safety and peace, to shine as a star for evermore. 

A few weeks more, and there were other partings, sad indeed, 
yet cheery. Dr. May told Mrs. Arnott that, though he grieved that 
so much of sorrow had come to dim her visit, he could not but own 
that it was the very time when her coming could be most comforting; 
and this, as she truly said, was satisfaction enough for her, besides 
that she could not rejoice enough that her arrival had been in time 
to see their dear Margaret. She should carry away most precious 
recollections ; and she further told Dr. Spencer that she was far 
more comfortable about her brother-in-law, than if she had only 
known him in his youthful character, which had seemed so little 
calculated to bear sorrow or care. She looked at him now only to 
wonder at, and reverence the change that had been gradually 
wrought by the affections placed above. 

Norman and his wife went with her — the one grave but hopeful, 
the other trying to wile away the pain of parting, by her tearful 
mirth — making all sorts of odd promises and touching requests, be- 
tween jest and earnest, and clinging to the last to her dear father-in- 
law, as if the separation from him were the hardest of all. 

1 Well, humming-birds must be let fly ? ’ said he, at last. “ Ah ! 
ha ! Meta, are they of no use ? ’ 

1 Stay till you hear ! 5 said Meta, archly — then turning back once 
more. ‘ Oh ! how I have thanked you, Ethel, for those first hints 
you gave me how to make my life real. If I had only sat still and 
wished, instead of trying what could be done as I was, how unhappy 
I should have been ! ’ 

1 Come, take your sprite away, Norman, if you don’t want me to 
keep her for good ! God bless you, my dear children 1 Good-bye ! 
Who knows but when Doctor Tom sets up in my place, Ethel and I 
may come out and pay you a visit ? ’ 

It had all been over for some weeks, and the home-party had 
settled down again into what was likely to be their usual course, 
excepting in the holidays, to which the Doctor looked forward with 
redoubled interest, as Tom was fast becoming a very agreeable and 
sensible companion : for his moodiness had been charmed away by 


SOS 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


Meta, and principle was teaching him true command of temper. 
He seemed to take his father as a special charge, bequeathed to him 
by Norman, and had already acquired that value and importance at 
home which comes of the laying aside of all self-importance. 

It was a clear evening in March, full of promise of spring, and 
Ethel was standing in the Church porch at Cocksmoor, after making 
some visits in the parish, waiting for Richard, while the bell was 
ringing for the Wednesday evening service, and the pearly tints of 
a cloudless sunset were fading into the western sky. 

Ethel began to wonder where Norman might be looking at the 
sun dipping into the Western sea, and thence arose before her the 
visions of her girlhood, when she had first dreamt of a Church on 
Cocksmoor, and of Richard ministering before a willing congrega- 
tion. So strange did the accomplishment seem, that she even 
touched the stone to assure herself of the reality ; and therewith 
came intense thanksgiving that the work had been taken out of her 
hands, to be the more fully blessed and accomplished — that is, as 
far as the building went; as to the people, there was far more labour 
in store, and the same Hand must be looked to for the increase. 

For herself, Ethel looked back and looked on. Norman Ogil- 
vie’s marriage seemed to her to have fixed her lot in life, and what 
was that lot ? Home and Cocksmoor had been her choice, and they 
were before her. Home ! but her eyes had been opened to see that 
earthly homes may not endure, nor fill the heart. Her dear father 
might, indeed, claim her full-hearted devotion, but to him she was 
only one of many. Norman was no longer solely hers ; and she had 
begun to understand that the unmarried woman must not seek un- 
divided return of affection, and must not set her love, with exclu- 
sive eagerness, on aught below, but must be ready to cease in turn 
tc be first with any. Ethel was truly a mother to the younger 
ones ; but she faced the probability that they would find others to 
whom she would have the second place. To love each heartily, to 
do her utmost for each in turn, and to be grateful for their fondness 
was her call; but never to count on their affection as her sole right 
and inalienable possession. She felt that this was the probable 
course, and that she might look to becoming comparatively solitary 
in the course of years — then tried to realise what her lonely life 
might be, but broke off smiling at herself, ‘ What is that to me ? 
What will it be when it is over V My course and aim are straight 
on, and He will direct my paths. I don’t know that I shall be 
alone, and I shall have the memory — the Communion with them, 
if not in their presence. Some one there must be to be loved and 
helped, and the poor for certain. Only I must have my treasure 
above, and when I think what is there, and of — Oh ! that bliss of 
being perfectly able to praise — with no bad old self to mar the full 
joy of giving thanks, and blessing, and honour, and power ! Need 


THE DAISY CHAIN. 


309 


I dread a few short years ? — and they have not begun yet— perhaps 
they won’t — Oh ! here is actually papa coming home this way ! how 
delightful ! Papa, are you coming to Church here ? ’ 

‘ Aye ! Ethel. That weathercock of Spencer’s is a magnet, T 
believe ! It draws me from all parts of the country to hear Richard 
in St. Andrew’s Church.’ 


THE END, 


















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